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| Wilton, New Hampshire |
Tell Me, Darling, Whos's Doing
the Talking? And Then, Who's Not?
...what remains
is the heart, its choke a small reminder to be mindful
lest we go too far
for flavor.
Jorie Grahm
An Artichoke for Montesquieu
What I want to know is how the heart
got to be choke and welcome and when choke
got to be an opening of a vein-
line to fuel. I’m telling you I’m the first
to admit I’m as naïve as kindness
in its simplest form: how when the poet,
quiet, pulls back the petals of the vegetable
in her hand to get to the heart
all the while loving each peaked piece,
sucking each leaf, all along warning me
not to go too far, not to mar the perfect
knot raw and trembling (somehow
I miss this the first time) in the palm of her hand.
I’m sure all those among us say
at one time or other it wasn’t supposed
to happen this way--such a cliché--I was
happy I am happy, but of all the fruit in the orchard this
is the one that’s picked:
and it’s early in the morning
and she’s not allowed to be
here so she’s had to sneak out
and the night all the nights up
until now are shivery kinds
of nights, especially the hottest
and all the clouds conspire
the palm
the open cheek
the pull
the helpless letting go
(but...
and the only resistance
is skin
is thinning armor
is the wish for a quick knife
is the sigh under pressure
when that knife
and the next sigh
startle and penetrate
at the same time
and afterwards
if we survive, a nick
of a scar
where the corner
of the lip turns from top
to bottom just there
on the horizon
before a tongue
before blood beads
yes--believe me when I say
I am naïve
I have never even touched
the ground
but oh the dew in the night
yes and the wet breath
against me....
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