by Annie Finch

Page 6


These words and I don't see you, though we charge
like horses past your tumid living stems,
stepping behind our braided forelocks, down
the paths your stems make, rooting underground.

Our tails move last into the mossy dirt,
swishing the last ray of daylight off.
How else could we approach? I knew I'd end
     with winding, deep inside such patient caves.

     "You'll find--it when you try to die--"
          --Emily Dickinson

When there are no words left to live,
I have elected hers

to haunt me till my margins give
around me, web and bone.

Her voice has vanished through my own.
She makes me like a stone

the falling leaves will sink and stay
not over, but upon.

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Copyright 1999 by Martha Nell Smith, all rights reserved
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Last updated on March 10, 2008
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