such grief might make mountains stop
reverse the waters where they flow
Anna Akhmatova, ‘Dedication’
I go, because you say nothing.
heavy in the mouth
the dead meat that weighs
heavy in your mouth
now is my tongue
move, if you are still, if,
that is, you will still
make me move.
in a short while, you will say
nothing important, no matter how
secretly tied to the bottom of eternity
to the austere touch that is to come:
the one that fears nothing irreparable
when last seen;
that centre was always nothing but a dot,
and it wears out, now,
in the unlikelihood of being, myself,
ever the centre of yourself;
or of some god’s late turn
to trade and traffic
and windstorm and sentence.
something grows and grows
raw in my very throat.
if you are still, move.
before you say another nothing.
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