| CURRENT
ISSUE |
| |
| FEATURES |
| |
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| ABOUT
US |
|
|
| |
| |
|
|
| |
|
|
| SERVICES |
| |
| |
|
|
|
|
|
Elsewhere, things tend
As each syllable leaves these lips as touch, feel how onerous
to keep from hearing moaning in wind--always
a draft touching, its embrace the dream that wakes
chilling the distance, and the body feeling it first as desire--
the deep sound of lovers in the sureness of love without
the love, the yearned for thing, never without pain.
Or the same chill already resembling how the ocean feels
though one flies over it, gray voice of the open mouth,
each wave blown apart. So sullen each attempt--
until she who doesn't want to, but having need, tries
to land somewhere before giving in; giving no expression
and haunted at the center, haunted at the heart,
and without forgiveness in this atmosphere of--
Think of me somewhere dumb,
open heart, open
corridor into--
whispering, okay, okay.
And afraid. Alone
and not. Afraid
with no more room, falling
into nowhere else--
--Claudia Rankine
|
Originally published in the April/ May 1997
issue of Boston Review
|
home