This is a recent poem that ties together a few of the things that have been swirling round my head and this blog in recent months - Sehnsucht/longing, eschatology and Emily Dickinson.
A conversation with Emily Dickinson
We talk about waiting
while we wait - you and I -
a pack of cards ever
closer to being dealt.
Also, we talk about longing:
How it sits in your lap,
furrowed and soft
like a bruised rabbit’s head
And how some days it’s a
spoon between teeth
resting over the tongue’s
arch, losing its shine
but never its strength.
How at night it becomes
a tree bough desperate
to worship a cool
and distant light.
How it slows to a crawl
whenever you think about it
like blood in a cold climate;
a purple river paralysed.
We talk about longing
like it’s a friend who
calls us too often
always wanting
something we don’t have
to offer.
And we talk about waiting
- you and I- while we wait
for the rabbit to die.
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