I never felt quite old enough to use question marks in my poems, to ask the reader/universe for answers. That’s an old woman’s game, I thought.
Until I read Mark Doty’s Deep Lane.
He’s only four years older than me and, in his new book, 27 of his 35 poems sprout those tell-tale tendrils of doubt.
How could I answer the child? Why shouldn’t the dead sport a little style? Can’t we be done with you?
Hmmm.
Maybe hmmm is what I write when I want to ask a question.
Until I read Mark Doty’s Deep Lane.
He’s only four years older than me and, in his new book, 27 of his 35 poems sprout those tell-tale tendrils of doubt.
How could I answer the child? Why shouldn’t the dead sport a little style? Can’t we be done with you?
Hmmm.
Maybe hmmm is what I write when I want to ask a question.
RSS Feed