. . . the inner word you want, that fugitive, unfaithful
word wed now to silence.
Every night I come to see—Margaret Gibson, "Forgetting"
if the orchid blossom's opened.
Night when I don't
or can't move any farther;
or when what by day I measure
in space as movement
becomes by night
more measurable in stillness;
or when what by day I measure forward
must by night be measured
back. Tonight my body says
you're just beyond the wall.
I search and search for the chink
though I've heard the old story:
the lion, the mulberry tree.
Remember, in June:
I point to a tree, saying
these are mulberries.
You tug a branch close for me;
unripe pink nubs
cascade over your hair. . .
Tonight the orchid's unfurled
just one petal.
Backward through my body comes
the story, less story now
than mourning song.
I sing it,
ripe as blood,
certainly torn apart.
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