We have no need of speech.
The spirit lives in the skin,
speaks from the pulse
in the neck,
in the neck,
glows from finger bones
like a private fire.
Bodies lose their plurality here.
Now we become the smallest atom,
incapable of breakage.
Anything we were fades
to another vision, a past life.
Again and again your face turns to me,
singing shut the distances.
It is more beautiful
than the naked moon.
I will not leave in the morning.
Source: Caravan by Ethna McKiernan (Midwest Villages & Voices, Minneapolis and The Dedalus Press, Dublin, 1989).
See also the previous Wild Reed posts:
• Never Say It Is Not God
• Charis
• Cherish
• Just Now and Then
• It Happens All the Time in Heaven
• Getting It Right
• Dew[y]-Kissed
Image: Photographer unknown.
5 comments:
Thank you, Michael!
Beautiful poem ... thank you ...
How lovely.
Ethna, your language is always so fresh, even poems I've read before seem brand new to me, always offering me more.
A reminder that love is never dead . . . past or present. Thank you.
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