March 29, 2019

Florence Weinberger

NASCENT JANUARY, 2018, AFTER RAIN

What a disappointment this century has been—so far.
—David Bowie, 2012

This morning, after rain, I saw half a rainbow.
I mean, it aspired, it rose and spread and headed
higher, but instead banged into a cloud bank where
it got stopped dead.
The spread, though, was impressive,
bloody reds and purples and yellows, it was enough
rainbow for me. More rainbow would have asked me:
what color was your brief life.

from Rattle #62, Winter 2018

__________

Florence Weinberger: “I write because I cannot sing. If I wrote to be right, that would be wanton. I write with undefined reason, sometimes congested. After the fact, the words spilling or stuttered, I still am not right, wrong, or in love. I am the judge. I am wary, picky and proud. I am sincere, dubious. Undone, I hone in. I can find the unmitigated, make it blatant if I scour my brain, Leviticus, The New Yorker. I find the very. It is right. But if it has wronged the song, I cannot sing, I am not done.” (web)

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