April 22, 2012
April 23: The Geography of Home by Matthew Graham

The Geography of Home

There is no G.P.S. for the past.
No way to find a way back
To those nights spent ceaselessly watching
For Sputnik to wander across the eastern sky.
Or to those days that seem now
As delicate as the cellophane wings of dragonflies
Helicoptering over the rotting rowboat
Sinking slowly in the green shade
Of a lost lake.
Or as sudden as the iron curtain of rain
That sometimes swept that lake in late summer
Like a boundary between then and the possibility of now.
So much lonely time
Measured in a place of fading light
By the arc of barn swallows
And the dying blue-black panic
Of bottle flies stuck to the yellow flypaper
Hung over the wringer washer
On Grandmother’s back porch.

—Matthew Graham (Vanderburgh County)

Matthew Graham is the author of three books of poetry: New World Architecture, 1946, and A World Without End. He teaches at the University of Southern Indiana.

Posted In: Miscellaneous

One response to “April 23: The Geography of Home by Matthew Graham”

  1. Kimberly licorish says:

    “Or to those days that seem now As delicate as the cellophane wings of dragonflies.” Childhood memories, the stuff that make us who we are. If I knew then how delicate those days would have become, I would have held on a little longer.

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