By Eric Meub
[Originally published on December 14, 2013]
She closed no doors at home. Sometimes they’d shout
at her, slammed by the wind: a single clap
of violent conclusion, like a trap
to seal her in a room. Or keep her out.
She liked her Sundays free of plans, disdaining
dinner invitations to linger by
her window watching the day’s whiteness die
on the walls. Or not linger, choice remaining.
She shunned the ends of novels, kept her ledge
of volumes fringed with bookmarks. She endured
her mother’s Persian carpet but preferred
unraveling to any bordered edge.
She never married, never lost her days
attending graduations, high-school plays.
| Copyright © 2014 by Eric Meub Eric Meub, architect, lives and practices in Pasadena. He is the adopted brother of the artist, Susan C. Price. They respect, in their different ways, the line. |  |
I enjoyed it were much Eric.
ReplyDeleteHow does Eric Meub do it? How did he shape this sequence of prose-sounding sentences into as perfect a sonnet of everyday life as you'll see anywhere. You certainly won't see it in The New Yorker. But you see it here. And we're proud to bring it to you.
ReplyDeleteHi Eric,
ReplyDeleteWhat a splendid first stanza, also the third and the final couplet.
Unfortunately the second stanza loses pep.
I have a small suggestion which may help:
Changed the third line to:
her windows, to see day's whiteness die.
Rolf Dumke
PS I usually don't fumble in other author's texts.
I hope you'll forgive me.
Dear Rolf, I'm sorry to be late responding: I've been on business travel almost continuously this month. Thank you so much for your constructive critique. Your assessments and suggestion are astute and much appreciated. You really made my day. Eric
ReplyDelete