<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=447885" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Self-Portrait</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">After Adam Zagajewski</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am child to no one, mother to a few,<br>wife for the long haul.<br>On fall days I am happy<br>with my dying brethren, the leaves,<br>but in spring my head aches<br>from the flowery scents.<br>My husband fills a room with Mozart<br>which I turn off, embracing<br>the silence as if it were an empty page<br>waiting for me alone to fill it.<br>He digs in the black earth<br>with his bare hands. I scrub it<br>from the creases of his skin, longing<br>for the kind of perfection<br>that happens in books.<br>My house is my only heaven.<br>A red dog sleeps at my feet, dreaming<br>of the manic wings of flushed birds.<br>As the road shortens ahead of me<br>I look over my shoulder<br>to where it curves back<br>to childhood, its white line<br>bisecting the real and the imagined<br>the way the ridgepole of the spine<br>divides the two parts of the body, leaving<br>the soft belly in the center<br>vulnerable to anything.<br>As for my country, it blunders along<br>as well intentioned as Eve choosing<br>cider and windfalls, oblivious<br>to the famine soon to come.<br>I stir pots, bury my face in books, or hold<br>a telephone to my ear as if its cord<br>were the umbilicus of the world<br>whose voices still whisper to me<br>even after they have left their bodies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Linda+Pastan">Linda Pastan</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=447885" data-title="Self-Portrait de Linda Pastan" data-description="After Adam Zagajewski I am child to no one, mother to a few, wife for the long haul. On fall days I am happy with my dying brethren, the leaves, but in spring my head aches from the flowery scents. My husband fills a room with Mozart which I tu..."></div> </div> </div>

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