“…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.
[LAG-other-response url=”https://www.vianegativa.us/2016/06/louise-labe-sonnets-viii-ix/” title=”Via Negativa: Louise Labe…”]