About the poet
Jane Duran (b. 1944) is a writer whose work is often preoccupied with memory and exile. Born in...
When it was bitter in New York City,
I would go out with my mother
past the icy buildings,
stay against her, just behind her
so she would stop the wind and snow,
and bury my face in her coat,
just there under her arm.
All winter, like her walk-in closet,
its yellow light, I would walk into her,
shake out my raw thoughts.
I didn't know who or what we were passing
or even if the city was still there,
the long radiant hairs against my face
like my grandmother's stole
with a fox's head that lay on her breast,
me clinging to my mortal mother,
our slow progress down that black, warm street.
from Coastal (Enitharmon, 2006), © Jane Duran 2002, used by permission of the author and the publisher
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