Trespass

Thomas Dooley

• Éditeur: Harper Perennial
• Année: 2014
• ISBN:
  9780062338839
• Sujet: Literatura
• Sous-sujet: Poesía americana

The 2013 National Poetry Series selection, chosen by poet and novelist Charlie Smith.

Established in 1978 by legendary editor Dan Halpern, the National Poetry Series has discovered many new and emerging voices and has been instrumental in launching the careers of poets and writers such as Billy Collins, Mark Doty, Denis Johnson, Cole Swensen, Thylias Moss, Mark Levine, and Dionisio D. Martinez.

Trespass, the winner of the National Poetry Series open competition, showcases a powerful poetic talent who explores the darker side of domestic life with unique and startling vision.

PART ONE

INGALLS AVENUE

the house lit of blue television of snow

the house where my father got tall

house of sturdy pipes house a home

for his sisters house of winter

boots and calico and wooden

spoons house of my grandfather

his girls grandkids house of quiet

sheer things of vinyl shingles

the padding around the house

the house of bins of old clothes and moon

light open windows of gulping

curtains the house of dusty aster

the house of women once girls a house

of kisses this is a house of rooms

a house of small closets and

smaller closets a closet for lemon

candy tucked back a closet

of cedar panels of tongue

and groove of bulbs a closet for small

things for tall things a closet for slumped

tall things and small things this

is a closet for tall and small things

EASTERN RED CEDARS

I walk by your fragrant bodies

thinned by winter, your young ones

are burlapped in nurseries, some are planked,

chipped-up

seamed for chests & trunks:

inside a cedar closet, my father at sixteen

one bulb setting

your rose panels aflame, his lit face

the white heart, his narrow body, wick,

his niece, four years old

his head knocks the light his hand

steadies the wild

string

the light

eclipsed, then bright

CEDAR CLOSET, 1955

He is sixteen and takes her

inside, jars

the unquiet hinge

she waits

forty years to name

him, Aunt Peggy says

you might as well be dead.

And now

it’s spring. My father’s hair

thins, dull moth-gray, the last

clouds sink like sacks, the trees

are wet, sweat

on a body, damp wool.

MY FATHER AS A BOY

his arm is the smallest to snake

the toilet’s trapway, ...