11.08.2019 - By Cardboard Box Productions, Inc.
Connor and Jack look at a poem by the great, late Lucille Clifton. They discuss the human capacity for violence, roaches in the big apple, dual voicings of memory, and the poem's incredible last sentence.
More on Clifton here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/lucille-clifton
Check out her Collected Poems here: https://www.nytimes.com/2012/10/12/books/the-collected-poems-of-lucille-clifton-1965-2010.html
[at last we killed the roaches]
By: Lucille Clifton
at last we killed the roaches.
mama and me. she sprayed,
i swept the ceiling and they fell
dying onto our shoulders, in our hair
covering us with red. the tribe was broken,
the cooking pots were ours again
and we were glad, such cleanliness was grace
when i was twelve. only for a few nights,
and then not much, my dreams were blood
my hands were blades and it was murder murder
all over the place.
Find us on Facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking
Find us on Twitter at: twitter.com/closetalking
Find us on Instagram: @closetalkingpoetry
You can always send us an e-mail with thoughts on this or any of our previous podcasts, as well as suggestions for future shows, at [email protected].