← v17n2, Fall 2018Poetry · Volume 17, Number 2
Mate Madrigal
Which was it said take me with you—
body or mind? Which leapt first
toward him, walking in dusk’s molten ingot
transversing the lawn, as a lone swan thirsted,
blue geisha on the fake lake, dragging in wake
foam’s bridal train. As if they were colliding,
constellations & colostrum awoke beneath lace,
cells, ovaries, already recalculating to new tides,
weft, then warp, though I couldn’t move.
The future did not love us yet. I loved it.
Pale with oil, with fingertips of snow, then kindling,
I brushed the enchant, the loom, his woolen jacket.
A gesture chaste enough. Touch just a whisper.
But in that synaptic stitch I was named forever.
