Washing blueberries this morning, I piled
a few ripe pints into one bowl. There they waited
until lunch, when we discovered that the bottom-most berries
had burst open.
The body of matter fails somehow,
it is not strong enough to bear its own weight. The hip
slips, the branch snaps under a fresh snowfall.
And the names
shift, tilt at a new angle, confusing us in
their seeming familiarity. Washing
a dead man or gutting a fish,
their names might return for a moment.
But for now,
we have just eaten our lunch,
and are now eating vanilla ice cream. My stomach,
you see, also revolts at those darker moments.
But the proper names,
the grunt of your enemy's voice in your ear,
telling you who you are -
I could wish for
the courage to ask for that.
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