“…My happiness dissolves and yet endures:
I wither and I flourish, both at once.”
~ Louise Labé, “Sonnet VIII,” trans. Jean Morris
Where is there a word
to mean both
and not merely one,
which hides a gleam
that flashes on
when the life sap thins
and hesitates? Where
is the sound to melt
whatever might need
disarmament; a pocket
in the air for the aftermath
of slicing onions, crushing
garlic? There should be
a word for both act
and aftermath: the tear
and the trail it leaves,
the kiss and its evaporation
from the still warm mouth.
The plate and its shadowy signature
pressed into the tablecloth.
In response to Via Negativa: Louise Labe....