Throwback Thursday: “November Elegy” by Mary Jo Bang

Issue 45, 2008

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“November Elegy” by Mary Jo Bang

November is more of the usual

November.  Sheets of rain

Cut into tidy rectangular grays.

Ghostly sections of cemetery pall.


The cymbal of morning secretary

To each idiomatic new day.

I wake up and go walking.

From the front of my mind I see a garden


With a half-living yellow lily

A pinkish-rose rose,

A deadheaded daisy.

Personal history is fiction but in spite of that


There are those simple elements

Of a singular experiment.

To say the minute is manufactured

Inside a clock, what does that mean?


That time is nothing more

Than a lame recomposed, after the fact,

Potential?  Silence takes no as an answer.


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