Wednesday, April 06, 2011


With a slight hangover, I read Alana Noel Voth's beautiful and heartbreaking column, then looked at Bill Noble's beautiful photographs of irises, tried to write something about mothers, and instead seem to have made something about erotic love. But maybe it's the sensuality and intimacy of motherhood that I've arrived at. Maybe all love is about cherishing and maybe all love has that quality of fragility. So, here we are, I suppose really it's just a love poem.

'They're all love stories' - Jonathan Safran Foer - I think I'm quoting it right, from 'Everything is Illuminated'.


Hold out your hands.
Yes, like that.
I would like to place there, in the cup
of your patience, this
exotic, tender-skinned, blue
veined gift.
See how it curls against
the heat of your palm? Feel
how it shivers
to all six points of the compass.
How delicate
fireworks in daylight,
how slight
my desire to reach you
as a wave of scent.

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