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Janet Brof
you arranged it so
each new love would admire
those who came before--
as if you knew we would stand
at your bedside side by side
my little pupil hints
I could pray
--as Sarah did--
for a son
like him
twiggy
branches
on a lemon sky--
a sadness
evaporates
crowded fruit stall--
a saxophone wafts
the girl from Ipanema
into the chill
cornflower sky
you stopped talking--
but your gray cat has just
climbed in from the fire escape
and is slowly stroking
some thin volumes we loved
sitting down
after the party--
only then do I remember
her swollen feet
my childhood Mary
in the yard
the women are hanging
their husbands' long pajamas
I'd bought fresh peaches
but you did not come to see me
she recoiled
when I tried to thank her--
the stranger
who did me
a favor
I love you he said
but I don't adore you--
fetching his wool knit cap
waving it aloft he stepped out
in the clear blue
boating
the Amazon night
bird watching I spy
the root of
my pain
Janet Brof writes, "These are my first tanka. Writing haiku--which I began after a trip to the Amazon two years ago--has returned me to writing poetry again after a hiatus
of some years. Among my old and new publications: Doors and Mirrors: Fiction
and Poetry from Spanish America, 1920-1970, Grossman/Viking, 1972 (co-editor
and translator), and poems in NY Quarterly, Negative Capability, New
England Quarterly, Frogpond, The Heron's Nest, Mayfly and moonset. In the
seventies, I lived for six years in Mexico and have been connected to Latin
America since then--to its literature, politics and people. New York City
is my home. I tutor writing. I have been a "tanguera"--an avid tango dancer.
Writing haiku and related forms is perhaps taking over."
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