The Edit


Un Chien Andalou
Eye of a woman
held open wide,
strong fingers on the lid
and the cheekbone beneath.
A razor in the
right hand so close
to her passive face.
Cut to the moon.
This poem was written for Margo Roby’s prompt that we think of a movie scene so distasteful or upsetting that it has kept us from wanting to see the film again. In this case, I am referring to a still photo from Luis Buñel’s early film Un Chien Andalou that is so disturbing to me that I would never want to see it in action. Ever. In reading about this movie, I have learned that this image is immediately followed by one of a thin cloud slicing across the full moon, but I don’t think I’d still be watching the film by then. I will not post a picture to accompany this poem, but will post a link for those who might want to take a look.




He’s looking — he should
be listening. The memories
are in the whispers
of the dry leaves not
yet ready to fall.
This tree might have
shaded his mother
all those years ago.

The house he came to see, gone,
enshrouded in the dead beige brick
of the local funeral parlor.

Disappointment in his eyes,
but listen. Those leaves, today
they are still alive.

I’ve been in a long dry spell, not really writing much of anything. This poem was inspired by my husband’s journey to view the home in Wolf Point, MT where his mother had spent part of her childhood.