all the wild horses
Beautiful the nerves pouring around in her like palace fire
from “Songs from the House of Death, Or How to Make It Through to the End of a Relationship” by Joy Harjo
for Donald Hall
7.
Even death who is the chief of everything
on this earth (all undertakings, all matters of human
form) will wash his hands, stop to rest under
the cottonwood before taking you from me
on the back of his horse.
8.
Nothing I can sing
will bring you back.
Not the songs of a hundred horses running
until they become wind.
Not the personal song of the rain
who makes love to the earth.
9.
I will never forget you. Your nakedness
haunts me in the dawn when I cannot distinguish your
flushed brown skin from the burning horizon, or my hands.
The smell of chaos lingers in the clothes
you left behind. I hold you
there.
You said I could have anything I wanted, but I
just couldn’t say it out loud.
Actually, you said Love for you
is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s
terrifying. No one
is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s
terrifying. No one
will ever want to sleep with you.
Men know almost nothing about desire, they think it has to do with sexual activity or can be discharged that way. But sex is a substitute, like money or language. Sometimes I just want to stop seeing.
Lullaby
I would not sing you to sleep.
I would press my lips to your ear
and hope the terror in my heart stirs you.
