Nothing like love to put blood
back in the language,
the difference between the beach and its
discrete rocks and shards, a hard
cuneiform, and the tender cursive
of waves; bone and liquid fishegg, desert
and saltmarsh, a green push
out of death. The vowels plump again like lips or soaked fingers, and the fingers
themselves move around these
softening pebbles as around skin. The sky's not vacant and over there but close
against your eyes, molten, so near
you can taste it. It tastes of salt. What touches you is what you touch.
back in the language,
the difference between the beach and its
discrete rocks and shards, a hard
cuneiform, and the tender cursive
of waves; bone and liquid fishegg, desert
and saltmarsh, a green push
out of death. The vowels plump again like lips or soaked fingers, and the fingers
themselves move around these
softening pebbles as around skin. The sky's not vacant and over there but close
against your eyes, molten, so near
you can taste it. It tastes of salt. What touches you is what you touch.
( Margaret Atwood )
[ Selected Poems II: 1976 - 1986 ]
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