Each time you grasp me in your arms, I know
that the meeting is the last one in my lifetime
and it only repeats itself in the following nights
in their black many-houred mirrors.
—Uszula M. Benka, “The Last Meeting” (translated by Regina Grol) (via poetryofpoland)
how he formed souls out of air. Just breath.
She preferred the page’s purity to his
restless hands. If he were a man made only
of words she’d give her whole self to him."
But in the opaque dark of the body,
Where we find ourselves and our story,
Such as it is, the slow old blood does its work.
She unbuttons his shirt, lays her hands
Against his chest, feels
His heart utter its simple repetitious word.
It refers to her. It refers her to herself.
That’s what she’s doing here, that’s why her tongue
Moves itself in his mouth, that’s why the dark
It moves in refuses to lighten to the syllable
That rises blind in the body: name, name, name.