April 25, 2009: We become new, Marge Piercy
We become new
Marge Piercy
How it feels to be touching
you: an Io moth, orange
and yellow as pollen,
wings through the night
miles to mate,
could crumble in the hand.
Yet our meaning together
is hardy as an onion
and layered.
Goes into the blood like garlic.
Sour as rose hips.
Gritty as whole grain.
Fragrant as thyme honey.
When I am turning slowly
in the woven hammocks of our talk,
when I am chocolate melting into you,
I taste everything new
in your mouth.
You are not my old friend.
How did I used to sit
and look at you? Now
though I seem to be standing still
I am flying flying flying
in the trees of your eyes.
A year ago today: The Only Animal, Franz Wright
Two years ago: Dream Song 385, John Berryman
Three years ago: The Quiet World, Jeffrey McDaniel
Four years ago: Man and Wife, Robert Lowell
