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Always I have done what was asked.
Melmac dishes stacked on rag towels.
The slack of a vacuum cleaner cord
wound around my hand. Laundry
hung on a line.
There is always much to do and I do it.
The iron resting in its frame, hot
in the shallow pan of summer
as the basins of his hands push
aside the book I am reading.
I do as I am told, hold his penis
like the garden hose, in the bedroom,
in that bathroom, over the toilet
or my bare stomach.
I do the chores, pull weeds out back,
finger stink-bug husks, snail carcasses,
pile dead grass in black bags. At night
his feet are safe on their pads, light
on the wall-to-wall as he takes
the hallway to my room.
His voice, the hiss of lawn sprinklers,
the wet hush of sweat in his hollows,
the mucus still damp
in the corners of my eyes as I wake.
January 10, 1952
-social elements
-effects
Mills College: 1988
Summer ends. Schoolwork doesn’t suit me.
My fingers unaccustomed to the slimness
of a pen, the delicate touch it takes
to uncoil the mind.
History. A dateline pinned to the wall.
Beneath each president’s face, a quotation.
Pictures of buffalo and wheatfields,
a wagon train circled for the night,
my hand raised to ask a question,
Where did the children sleep?
-10 different languages
-fellowships from Guggenheim Foundation
and National Endowment for the Arts
***Awards:
The Paterson Prize for "The Book of Men"
The Roanoke-Chowan Award for "The Book of Men"
Pushcart Prize
The Best American Poetry 1999
The Best American Poetry 2006
The Best American Poetry 2013
Oregon Book Award for Facts about the Moon
2006 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize shortlisted for Facts about the Moon
National Book Critics Circle Award finalist (What We Carry)
MFA
Joseph Millar
Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor —
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn’t elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That’s how it is sometimes —
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you’re just too tired to open it.
Works Cited
"Dorianne Laux." Poets.org. N.p., n.d. Web. 25 Jan. 2013. <http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/742>.
"Dorianne Laux: "What My Father Told Me"" Dorianne Laux: "What My Father Told Me" N.p., n.d. Web. 30 Jan. 2013. <http://www.rimbaud.org.uk/q-laux3.html>.
"Dorianne Laux." Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 25 Jan. 2013. Web. 25 Jan. 2013. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorianne_Laux>.
"Dust." By Dorianne Laux. Poetry Foundation, n.d. Web. 25 Jan. 2013. <http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/241982>.
Laux, Dorianne. What We Carry: Poems. Brockport, NY: BOA Editions, 1994. Print.
"Official Site of Dorianne Laux." Official Site of Dorianne Laux | Award-winning Poet and Author. N.p., n.d. Web. 25 Jan. 2013. <http://doriannelaux.com/index.html>.