"The only language
I have
is Language."
- Robin Coste Lewis
For as long as we can, we want to hold
the image that flares beneath our eyelids—
The same kind of irresolvable desire
behind all the attempts to save what we can
in the face of certain extinction. Last week
I saw an early 20th century closet recreated in
a museum room: an umbrella of mauve printed silk
with a clear lucite handle; a pair of lace-up boots
with kitten heels. On the bedroom vanity, a black
pillbox hat. In the bath, a tin of Epsom salts
and a box that housed a bar of Ivory soap. Two
nightgowns of white muslin behind the door. Close
your eyes and you might imagine the shape of a body
climbing into bed, clasping its hands together.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
