The Swan of the Body, Falling
Often a body wears out
beautifully--
so that it is luminous
from the inside out,
the way the labial fold
of the rose-petal conch
refracts light, the ordinary
rough carapace
weathering smooth.
And the pearl then,
seeping nectar,
slipped from its husk,
memento mori
at the hem of the tide.
We have misgivings
about the body—its taut
daybreak nascence, is it habitable?
Yet we test it
against water, air,
the sheer and snow-laced
summit's face.
We ask of it:
be as strong-backed
as the Andalusian mare
lifting high
her polished hooves.
Portage our dreams.
Bear us from our torpor.
Will it hold, this business
of touch--
if I clasp your hand
will your fingers transmit
courage, supply me
with life attenuated,
chlorophyll, oxygen?
For it seems the wild swans
fill with light and exult
in midair, feeding each other
with their long callings and cries
when the solitary heart needs
its blood typed, shunt inset
for the sake of its drum beat,
its earth-held pulse.
When the body's winter comes,
we will ourselves over frost-slick
stones; when we cry out
in the long night,
the surging tide beckons,
seeking to test our breath:
continued
How long may I buoy you
on my green swells.
How weightless you are in me,
your hair once more
swirling and dark,
your breasts full and white;
how I call back all
you thought you lost.
(from Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, 2013)
