Rosemary Winslow



Exiled in my apartment, islanded by white
dust, construction cranes –– slim Tour d’Eiffels ––
remember our spring in Paris? Tout le monde
on strike, or vacation, in love. Or was it
only us? These shiny, godlike acolytes
of condominiums puncture the city’s sky –– high
as the Monument? Walls climb the struts
under their swinging arms. And next door the old
mortuary’s getting reborn. Now a mud-brown
dust’s descended. I’ll try to forget how it gets
inside with the hammering, asthma, the ER.

And now March turns unconcerned to daffodils
and deadlines, and prospects of finishing.
Today I wake up, a dozen hot men
out front working sheet rock from a truck bed
blocking traffic. No one can turn back, I see.
Let’s leave out the part about cut gas lines,
the crashed fence. I’ll also throw out the bit
about smashed glass and the lake in the basement.
Sun’s charm’s on everything. Tout le monde.
A queen’s patience, now. You’re here again.
It’s only Monday. Take my hand. Come back to bed.


Rosemary Winslow teaches literature and writing at The Catholic University of America. Her book, Green Bodies, was published by The Word Works in 2007. She lives in downtown DC with her husband John, a visual artist, who is presently occupied with painting the deconstructing and reconstructing cityscape outside the south windows of their home.

Published in Volume 8, Number 4, Fall 2007.


To read more by this author:
Rosemary Winslow: The Whitman Issue
Rosemary Winslow
Rosemary Winslow: The Wartime Issue
Rosemary Winslow: Split This Rock Issue