A Poem For Me

by Janice A. Farringer


More pop than sass, more sass than flash, the leopard gloves of Paris

hang along the pegged wall with a coat from Eden…North Carolina. In

times of crisis there are boats and trains and lots of walking. And

here around the corner of Kenya, I find what I have sought in the

colors of my slides without the greens to override the reality of predators.


At once I recognize the loden and take it to swim in the Aegean,

place of the gods so warm and white and off again to fly above the

mountains and the snow aboard a glider that makes my hands tingle with

gripping. And so to war. Across a Germany so like itself and up to

Scandinavia for the summer, and then around the foot of Italy to see the



Serenity so prolonged and soft comes in Shinto shrines filled with

flying paper prayers and lost in ten million cities of ten million,

dotted with fire tender’s pots of lucky smoke, who cannot read my face

and think me tall in red wedding kimono I try on for a trick.

And then to Hong Kong and up off the rim to pick the labels off

the floor and paste them on anything at all in Seoul. I run to Edinburgh

for wrapping in a woolen and hiding in old parts where people are red and orange

and love to laugh and don’t think my hair too loose.


At the end are tulips. Not Keukenhof's but mine. Around in the grass

and up into the pots along the porch. Off again to Bald Head Island

where there are no flowers, only pelicans, gray and weary against the

spit of sand, Cape Fear.