Molly Damm
Maybe some darks are deep enough to swallow what we want them to.
—Mary Szybist
Maybe we fling our hair
to be demure but on the way stars
on our necks. Maybe they prick.
Maybe we swallow like a river,
maybe in the dark we’re porous
as the wet in it. Concussed
by the bedding of stones there,
could be we’re blurred but
at our best like that.
Whatever violence in being snowblind,
better than the butter leather
burn of slow glances and bump
in the house. We’ll never be
as forbidding but we wanted to be
a softer landing than that, more contact,
more breath left for crossing the bridge,
or for a best friend at my cellar door
in the cool, mineral afternoon.
I’ve taken only a thimbleful of love
out of love
for you and our scary
appetites. Someday we’ll lose this
what each other sounds like
lose the field to brush
and trouble, we’ll pray:
maybe some darks will push
back. Pray:
take me while the rhythm’s
still good.