Poetry. I drag the machine by its serpentine nose, / and it churns its belly into a hungry nothing, / all gullet, sucking at the lips of paradise, / emptying noise and silence into its hollow whine. (Vacuuming). Whether its piano practice, window washing, or a game of jacks, Jeanne Emmons brings to her domestic poems a rich lyric awareness and a wise if wistful acceptance of human limitations. Maxine Kumin.
"Bloodroot"
A single leaf folds
around the closed bud
like a prayerbook shut
on the white forefinger
of a pious young girl.
And then everything opens,
eyes, hands, books,
the green cape thrown off
and the white body emerging,
spinning and swirling her skirts,
and all smile, smile, smile.
But in the dark under the bed,
where nobody can see,
are the red shoes she wears
when everyone presumes she is asleep,
the ones she dances in
until her tender feet bleed.