Rummage Sale

When you've made the decision to move, you get rid of stuff that is silly to move 3,000 miles away to a new climate. Jennifer Maier, who lives in Seattle, wrote thisand just feels right.


Rummage Sale By Jennifer Maier

Forgive me, Aunt Phyllis, for rejecting the cut

glass dishes—the odd set you gathered piece

by piece from thirteen boxes of Lux laundry soap.

Pardon me, eggbeater, for preferring the whisk;

and you, small ship in a bottle, for the diminutive

size of your ocean. Please don’t tell my mother,

hideous lamp, that the light you provided

was never enough. Domestic deities, do not be angry

that my counters are not white with flour;

no one is sorrier than I, iron skillet, for the heavy

longing for lightness directing my mortal hand.

And my apologies, to you, above all,

forsaken dresses, that sway from a rod between

ladders behind me, clicking your plastic tongues

at the girl you once made beautiful,

and the woman, with a hard heart and

softening body, who stands in the driveway

making change.

Travel Is Magic

Travel By Edna  St. Vincent Millay

The railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn’t a train goes by,
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
And hear its engine steaming.

 My heart is warm with friends I make,
And better friends I'll not be knowing;
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
No matter where it’s going.

In Bed At Night, I Listen to the Waves

Inland  

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

  

People that build their houses inland,
   People that buy a plot of ground
Shaped like a house, and build a house there,
   Far from the sea-board, far from the sound

Of water sucking the hollow ledges,
   Tons of water striking the shore,--
What do they long for, as I long for
   One salt smell of the sea once more?

People the waves have not awakened,
   Spanking the boats at the harbour's head,
What do they long for, as I long for,--
   Starting up in my inland bed,

Beating the narrow walls, and finding
   Neither a window nor a door,
Screaming to God for death by drowning,--
   One salt taste of the sea once more?