I read verses that stir me,
but can’t remember what they said.
They don’t mean what they say,
they are what they say.
I read them again to be stirred;
they keep not meaning, only being,
leaving in my mind a memory
of being stirred by words.
Grasping them is grasping
slaking, thirsty water
sliding through my fingers,
aching to be drunk.
***

Afterword

Following is an excerpt from “Hot Milk Hissing in a Pot” by Li-Young Lee (“she” is the serpent):

She called me her bow,
and she bent and strung me.
She called me her arrow,
and she loosed me.
And I’m still speeding, quivering with her aim.
(Poem published in Poetry, December 2023)

(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved