In this season of persimmons and pears
when things turn quickly and just go,
I mourn the almost being, as much as the done.
You, like the animal who shows me his beautiful teeth—
but then you, who slinks away sudden and sad before
I could lean in far enough to feel the bite and breath and
the loveliest sinking into a darker comfort of embrace,
with secret signs on the scarred– still shining– walls.
The God we share would surely approve if you lay down,
reveling in the world revealed in contrasts, those
antonyms of creation and earthly existence.
The only sin is fear and all its descendants.
SORT OF SAVED– OR NOT– (A SORT OF SONNET)
I poison spray and scaldingly splash away
the large brown recluse that greets
my hand’s shadow in the sink, barely
thinking as instinct flails the body deep.
I know I can’t kill him—or shouldn’t.
Where does he end up being, what seeing?
We’re burning on one side of everything
and drowning on the other these days,
more than we’ve always already seemed.
Can we still find each other between?
Can you still find me please? I believe
the spider has no problem surviving–
despite my trying to banish what I meet
that startles and scares me—clinging dangerously.
what she hears:
like blood flowing through
every vein and artery, as
fluid light and vibration
of a range of tangible singing
from thunder to birds wings
to wasps in a wall.
The arm extending and
bending like the skein of hair
winding from her head,
becomes an accomplice as
part of the bow strands’
pull of sound, its
filling and emptying.
–Rebecca Weiner Tompkins