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From whiskey river<\/em><\/a> (first stanza):<\/p>\n Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies<\/strong><\/p>\n Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives of course And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails, But you do not wake up a month from then, two months, And if you have said, “For heaven’s sake, must you always be To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, Run down into the cellar and bring up the last jar of raspberries; Your tea is cold now. (Edna St. Vincent Millay)<\/p>\n …and<\/a>:<\/p>\n How I Became a Ghost<\/strong><\/p>\n It was all about objects, their objections My house for example still moves Windows became more than I had more success with the lake.<\/p>\n The phone worked for a long time Bats crashed into me at night, The rings vanished from my hand, I stopped feeling the wind.<\/p>\n One day the closets were empty.<\/p>\n Another day the mirrors were.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nThe child is grown, and puts away childish things.
\nChildhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.<\/p>\n
\nDie, whom one never has seen or has seen for an hour,
\nAnd they gave one candy in a pink-and-green strip\u00e8d bag,
\nor a jack-knife,
\nAnd went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nAnd their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion
\nWith fleas that one never knew were there,
\nPolished and brown, knowing all there is to know,
\nTrekking off into the living world.
\nYou fetch a shoe-box, but it’s much too small, because she won’t
\ncurl up now:<\/span>
\nSo you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep.<\/p>\n
\nA year from then, two years, in the middle of the night
\nAnd weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh,
\nGod! Oh, God!<\/span>
\nChildhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters, —
\nmothers and fathers don’t die.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nkissing a person?”<\/span>
\nOr, “I do wish to gracious you’d stop tapping on the window
\nwith your thimble!”<\/span>
\nTomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you’re busy
\nhaving fun,<\/span>
\nIs plenty of time to say, “I’m sorry, mother.”<\/p>\n
\nwho neither listen nor speak;<\/span>
\nWho do not drink their tea, though they always said
\nTea was such a comfort.<\/p>\n
\nthey are not tempted.<\/span>
\nFlatter them, ask them what was it they said exactly
\nThat time, to the bishop, or to the overseer, or to Mrs. Mason;
\nThey are not taken in.
\nShout at them, get red in the face, rise,
\nDrag them up out of their chairs by their stiff shoulders and shake
\nthem and yell at them;<\/span>
\nThey are not startled, they are not even embarrassed; they slide
\nback into their chairs.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nYou drink it standing up,
\nAnd leave the house.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nexpressed through a certain solidity.<\/p>\n
\nthrough me, moves me.
\nWhen I tried to reverse the process
\nI kept dropping things, kept finding myself
\nin the basement.<\/p>\n
\nusually problematic.
\nI wanted to break them
\nwhich didn’t work, though for awhile<\/p>\n
\nthough when I answered
\noften nobody was there.<\/p>\n
\nbut then didn’t anymore.<\/p>\n
\nthe pond.<\/p>\n