so many languages have fallen
off the edge of the world
into the dragon’s mouth. some
where there be monsters whose teeth
are sharp and sparkle with lost
people. lost poems. who
among us can imagine ourselves
unimagined? who
among us can speak with so fragile
tongue and remain proud?
“here yet be dragons,” Lucille Clifton
reflection
which woman with identity aches
possesses the goal of wanting less
is joy without presage of misery
antonym of light the American politic
language the loss
heavy the war company
broken bodies cockeyed promises
rattlesnake grandfather memory
loss’ tenacity, infinity of trees, the whole buried in
all the vowels (three stresses)
usual talk versus dancing tongue
language’s treasures still possibility in flight
song rhythm of song
lightning bolt
and light is so many things
what if reflected silent
belly of the under news
witnesses so many were, are
camera (images) as a history safe
(bring back the beauty)
not even superman could crack—
build something human
of anger and love
splendor
“your tongue splintered into angels”
lucent
your frequency of light
Note: This piece constructed from marginal notes taken while reading The Book of Light in 2006-2007. Lucille Clifton, your language a light dangling, falling, unfailing.
Deborah Poe
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