Ellen McGrath Smith
Every tongue awaits the body.
Every body is a word.
Every word a possibility.
Grant the open wound
its correspondence to
some mystery unshrouded.
Give the heart its place within
the grape-dark midnight sky.
Skull, full of sparkling water.
Joy like a fly trapped in honey
(where its wings were:
a chronic neuralgia).
Each head that crowns
each roseate petal of vulva
says it again. Then,
the jagged cry
that means it's alive.
Whole hungry centuries!
Eyes of intelligence
opened and closed!
Lambs in the meadow
each spring.
The tottering legs
of original love.
Copyright (c) 2004 by Ellen McGrath Smith