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“72. Another poet scoffed when I said” in “Musing”
72.
Another poet scoffed when I said
I was writing love poems, although
What poems are not about desire
And exile, the memory of a mother’s
Voice, the hope for a place free of pain
And death? Sometimes a poet will take us
Farther from the terrors of breath
And oblivion, leading us into the dread
That night was a relentless error
That gave birth to us as fear,
But then she will turn and imagine a space
As gentle and whole as God’s grace, lifting
Heart and bone from pit and disappearance
As if her song of you and me were eternal.
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