I find it under the debris of sun,
beneath a memory of murmur. I catch its
architecture in new skylines, building itself
up from inside-out. Reconstruction proceeds
from inside a bus bouncing down Tel-Aviv,
the papers folding over papers so recognition
lies in the overlap. Tachana haba’a: Migdal Shalom.
Sign here on the contracts; here on our contractions. Our constructions are efficient as always.
Look at me––like a child!––, still staring at the stream glittering its way
down from somewhere warmer; how it has turned its back into coolness
now, into clarity; how I am still quivering in a squat, like a child,
holding my breath, watching the paper boat, fingering the hem of my shorts.
It is sipping what runs. Look. I am still pulling at something on my knee not ready to peel away, waiting for…
i have moved
mountains, bricks,
braids, and cheeses
to get here. the air
smells of dew, dew
doo doo
doo doo
doo,
and freshly beheaded grass,
and smiles,
and cows,
and their methanous poo.
my face is still not full –
dropping some expressions,
forgetting its hue,
sometimes an
eyebrow raises for
a grin, a corner
of the mouth
imagines itself
with the capacity to
blink. i have been
moved by mountains,
“This is almost done and you write very
small.” The day is nearly burning its butt
ends now, taking its final sole stroll round
the compound. The day is wearing fleece
on this one, keeping itself aflame
what is to blame has trailed along
the path on the Rijn, passing her
favourite tree and the memory of
falling yellow amidst the leaves. The tips
of my hairs are rising to a roll call
“The sky’s white with November’s teeth,
and the air is ash and woodsmoke.
A flush of color from the dying tree,
a cargo train speeding through, and there,
that’s me, standing in the wintering
grass watching the dog suffer the cold
leaves. I’m not large from this distance,
just a fence post, a hedge of holly.
Wider still, beyond the rumble of overpass,
mares look for what’s left of green
in the pasture, a few weanlings kick
out, and theirs is the same sky, white
like a calm flag of surrender pulled taut.
A few farms over, there’s our mare,
her belly barrel-round with foal, or idea
of foal. It’s Kentucky, late fall, and any
mare worth her salt is carrying the next
potential stake’s winner. Ours, her coat
thicker with the season’s muck, leans against
the black fence and this image is heavy
within me. How my own body, empty,
clean of secrets, knows how to carry her,
knows we were all meant for something.”
— Ada Limón, “The Carrying,” from The Carrying (Milkweed,
2018)
