04.10.2011

Oubliette

In the knell

we looked for words.


The knock of a fork —

nothing. 








Time tossed intimacy
around the kitchen



and readied on the range
a rabbit’s red meat.










How could music presume

to mimic the sea?



The cuff itself
wrapped and pounding.










If we tried to climb —

if we searched for a ladder



our kisses made the collar,

forgot us










all the same. Words

for a while wandered,



came back to dance at us

winded—










swallowed.
I couldn’t 
believe it hurt.

Sally Delehant (© 2011)