The Black Dress
It’s flesh we love first—the angle of light upon
an arm, our earthly mouths to an earthly
breast—ourselves no more than a dim rocking,
our beings as small as a questionmark dreaming
on a field of paper, into the word, the black dress
of the world that she puts on and strolls down distant
sidewalks, into a theater, a house, among the silverware,
and lifts the darkest cup of fire up to her earthly lips,
or chews ice. For it’s flesh we love last–the angle
of darkness upon an arm, our earthly mouths to
the earth’s breasts, ourselves no more, no more.
Copyright © 2004 REbecca Seiferle.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.