Diana Newton


I don’t remember when
the girl of myself turned her back
and walked away

for a while lost
in the ignorance of loving
someone or something, the world shrunk
to mouth-size

I am so distant from the hope of myself

My days and nights pour through me like complaints
and become a story I forgot to tell.

I meet my shadow in the deepening shade

Soon I will raise my face for a white flag,
and when God enters the fort,
I won’t spit or gag on his finger.
I will eat it like a white flower.


Source & Method

Cento. The contributors in order: Linda Hogan, Stephen Dunne, Mary Oliver, Marie Howe, Theodore Roethke, Anne Sexton.

Diana Newton┬áis a newly released retiree, previously a filmmaker, author, and psychotherapist. She knows despair and delight and lies with down with literature every night. Reading “The Wasteland” by T.S. Eliot in college changed her life. She has kept a file of “poems I love” for thirty years.
Issue 22