I wanted to write “stay”
on your sides, surround
your bed with oceans
of salt. I hope he folds you
into a fox, loves you
like a splintered arrow,
brandishes the kill
of your lips. May the bouquet
of your hips wither.
May the wolves
forget your name.
but even when sleeping you could feel
him traveling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful something not everyone knows - from For Women who are Difficult to Love by Warsan Shire
How like an island we are in love encouraging moss & like an island we are barely moving Just to exist takes much concentration & like an island in love we have a house in our two imaginations & they intersect It strengthens the house & our feelings Unlike an island we wake up An island never sleeps That is its duty & ours to remain in love barely moving We do not want to disturb the house Do not want it to fall into the ocean that is always so nearbyItsurroundsus & is moving Like an island the ocean does not see usor care whythough we persist in loving it at one rateor another & are wakingclose together in thedark
poem holds the unspeakable inside it. The unsayable... The thing that
you can't really say because it's too complicated. It's too complex for
us. Every poem has that silence deep in the center of it.
sometimes think my vision of the sea is the clearest thing I own. I
pick it up, exile that I am, like the purple ‘lucky stones’ I used to
collect with a white ring all the way round, or the shell of a blue
mussel with its rainbowy angel’s fingernail interior; and in one wash of
memory the colors deepen and gleam, the early world draws breath.
She takes the dreams out of his skull--a small boat, its departure from the harbor, the gradual loss of land. She can smell the hull wood baked into brittleness by the sun, the drop over an edge into nothing but water & horizon, the slackening of time that accompanies the absence of spatial direction. She sits there for awhile, culling through his brain.
- Dawn Clifton Tripp, Moontide
Things aren’t all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have
us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that
no word has ever entered, and more unsayable than all other things are
works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our
own small, transitory life. - Rilke