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[Poetry]

THE CURATOR ON HER PORCH

by Andrew Ridker

I never named any of the thousands.
I only think of them,
my children in a stranger’s house.
I am unreliable.

My visual of the past is intact
and I can hold their numbers, materials
(wheel-thrown, hand-built.)

             I appreciate your planning,
the tan slacks by the green door,
the solidarity of your shirt and shoes.
I realize my pink two-piece
may preclude a spirited discussion.

I’m not trying to be seductive.
I get wily in the summer
when there’s time to make.

Let me show you around,
tell me what you like
(take 1978, 1983--
            there is a great deal missing in between.)
That’s how the trouble starts. Try to understand.

I am very close-minded and rather mean-
spirited. I am rude with underlings, my will
is invented, I take liberties.



Try to look less like you.
Sit more to the left.
You’re a part as well, and the fireflies
behind you. Sometimes I forget
             you’re here, wondering what to do
with all this darkness



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