through a hundred blankets
my skin my fat my blood my bone
pressed—my heart
imprinted with a brick
imprinted with a brick
‘gainst this wall I’ve been so long
every grain known to every hair of me
I’m fitted with rage—
yet it becomes such a sweet and aching
plangent note
when I go to growl it, a voice sings it
Pen’ned me in, making me free
my dreams’ bed a rooted a tree
there’s nothing in me doesn’t know you
nothing doesn’t falter—love you
I am made of rage
sweet
soft on my tongue even when it’s a blade
full of you
nothing but honey
prayers blessing you
font of my joy, which has never been softness
—never reflected
—never given
That prayer I prayed the the most—never attained
nobody put me against a wall
nor holds me
nor could
nor would
every grain of sand in the clay
known to every hair of me
the brick by my heart intimate to me
touching, always—my heart, my skin, my fat, my bone
blood runs to the rest, whispering, overeager—never stops
though nothing has gone in twenty years
I am fitted with love
a hundred and eight dreams
fitted with the wrong faces
year on year
—rested on roots
2 comments:
Wow. I am speechless at the beauty of that.
I am not a literary scholar, not much of a reader of the Classics or anything else I imagine would prompt conversations at the dinner tables of those who have spent time reading and studying them.
I think even if I did I wouldn't remember any of it. I always stand in awe at those who are able to use it in everyday conversation. You could stand next to a professor of literature and hold your own - maybe even teach him/her a thing or two.
:)
You render me all but speechless - all I could say with any grace is thank you.
The poem speaks to Mr. X's long duration long distance, of course. We may have no odyssey, but I do feel like I understand the literary Penelope, sometimes. Less in the scholarly sense than the personal.
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