There are times when the mind
knows no wholeness. It sees the moon broken
in the branches, the finch’s shadow
as something terribly severed, black blood.
As if touch were annihilation.
As when a woman waits in her small room;
her lover enters,
raises his soft hand to her face. …
They lie down on the clean bed,
lie down on sweetness of pine,
feather pillows, polished wood;
but as he touches her
she pictures the shadow of a woman
burned into a wall, the others
who wandered in stunned silence
through the streets, their flesh
turned to rags in their hands.
She thinks of the woman’s arms
outstretched though they held nothing,
though there was nothing to hold onto up ahead ….
She gets up from the bed.
It is dark now;
the man’s throat
caged in shadows of branches as he sleeps.
Distance is the soul of the beautiful,
she had read, and she imagines an unknown planet
revolving in deep space, blue waves
in tender exile from the land.
Remorseless. Without witness.
If she could go there
she would possess nothing.
How beautiful the earth
might seem again from that distance.
How possible love.
The Drowned
Did you enjoy the the artible “The Drowned” from David Bottoms on OZOFE.COM? Do you know anyone who could enjoy it as much as you do? If so, don't hesitate to share this post to them and your other beloved ones.
Leave a Reply