[Poem] Nostos by Anne Carson | Harper's Magazine

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From a manuscript in progress.

Every morning we wept an hour then went to see a tool
whining up from under the floorboards through him
barefoot in the doorway betrayed and unconsolable
unable to recall how we got there who let us in did we
rent a car did he keep saying is there a banquet? when do
we go home? two very good questions no Dad it was
morning or by now evening or was it all the evenings and
who is safe at evening or was there any then then or did
he live now then three more years and his eyes broke in
the doorway but he lived and rage tore his feet off
dropping them in different rooms but he lived and they
put shoes on the ends of his legs so other people used his
feet by day or then night but well night’s a different story
isn’t it nights get a nice rounded top thus resembling a
grave dug at the full moon or you will have dirt left over.


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