If we did not hold so much, i would not write.
If it were not for memories, for the ghosts
carrying the hundred clamoring moons,
I would be safe. The forests keep
saying I should not remember, but always
there is the sound of their breathing.
If it were all right just to love and die,
I would not be in this empty place
three stories up looking out on nothing
I know. If I could bind my mouth
or teach my heart despair of living,
I would not be here learning what to say
If it were not for memories, for the ghosts
carrying the hundred clamoring moons,
I would be safe. The forests keep
saying I should not remember, but always
there is the sound of their breathing.
If it were all right just to love and die,
I would not be in this empty place
three stories up looking out on nothing
I know. If I could bind my mouth
or teach my heart despair of living,
I would not be here learning what to say
“
| — |
The Ghosts Poem by Linda Gregg When I first read Linda Gregg’s two collections, Too Bright to See and Alma, I could not connect to her. I felt that she was whiny, numb and pessimistic. Writing about her has made me search for those moments when she glimpses hope. Perhaps because I know she is so shattered, I begin to feel proud of her for picking herself back up again. She does understand the potential for beauty in life and is always grasping for it with as much faith as she can muster despite her painful reality. |
