August 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016
Two people I love are parting.
my shoes in the desert. Maybe
a wedding, I have a formal
need to make
these two ideas meet . . .
Two people I love are parting. I left
my shoes in the desert. Maybe I’m like
a wedding, I have a formal need to make
these two ideas meet, the colors of each one
meeting, as if in a vineyard they are to be made
better by each other. I’m not like a vineyard.
The last time I started out with an idea
I looked out across the water until the idea
chimneyed up out of me and away. That’s
how I know it feels good to give yourself up
over something blue. So what if each day
absence shakes me down to my toes, bare
now and which have never left the earth,
which have always dug down deep
into this earth. One way of learning
that the sky lights up is saying it.
Another is going back to the desert
to find you. When this new thirst appears
in the canyon of my throat I’m all hands
in the bucket, channeling my this is how
I have been taught to handle it feeling.
I don’t have to fight to make this body
any more strange. Far away, two people
I love are parting, and their belongings,
and a man believes his grief cares for him
enough to follow him wherever he goes
like a beloved. Nothing takes as long as loving
and unloving. Lightning, distance, I can see
my feet won’t tell me if the storm
I see from here is going to be coming.
While we have you...
...we need your help. You might have noticed the absence of paywalls at Boston Review. We are committed to staying free for all our readers. Now we are going one step further to become completely ad-free. This means you will always be able to read us without roadblocks or barriers to entry. It also means that we count on you, our readers, for support. If you like what you read here, help us keep it free for everyone by making a donation. No amount is too small. You will be helping us cultivate a public sphere that honors pluralism of thought for a diverse and discerning public.
August 24, 2016