by Maya Stein
(12/21/05)
The Just After
it's hard not to want to write
about orgasm,
even though all i can tell you
is that grasping climb, thighs
pixellating with heat,
fingers in an animal clutch,
toes in a feral, fetal curl,
and something in the belly whirring
with strange and marvelous appetite -
even in the vortex of such a whirlpool,
i am convinced there is a poem, waiting.
but how to tell you about
the just after?
what i didn't know
was that God could be in the room, too
moments after coming,
how God could sidle next to the bed
in the barest hint of a whisper,
how a tiny, precious tendril of God
could snake its way
under my whole body and, somehow,
like a feather stroke
like a pocket of air
like a caesura of freedom,
lift all the yearning out.
Surrender
even when it is so late
i forget to make the list
pointing my way through tomorrow,
and spell badly the simplest words,
and burn my tongue on tea
even when it is so late
i am a shell of myself
peering from wide, red eyes
into the thrumming ether of midnight
even when it is so late
it is useless to keep time
silly to eat or drink anymore
and phone calls are out the question
even when it is this late
it is never too late
to put it all down
the lists
the words
the bloodshot midnights
and listen, patient as a mountain,
as she sleeps.
each breath is unceremonious
as the next, but still
my heart sprints regardless.
i realize it is not her surrender
i'm so grateful for.
it's mine.
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux