New England Review - - Table of Contents - John Poch

Like a woman writ­ing Ara­bic margina­lia around all four sides of an English son­net in red ink, kiss my skin in the dark, cov­er­ing me fast and slowly like dew lift­ing at first light. Be­fore the squash flower of our bed twists closed try­ing to hold the mem­ory of a rapt bee, be thirsty for some­thing in me be­tween my voice and tongue, per­haps a moan you can trans­late, dis­till­ing it into the honey of your morn­ing and a lit­tle poi­son for those who would in­trude on our cor­re­spon­dence with their ce­ment and the dull rage of rou­tine. Create with me and then never wake me, but de­fine some ob­vi­ous part of me in ridicu­lous terms on be­half of the next hol­i­day. Grind a lens for squash flower and bee, and bend over God's idea, jeal­ous as the grave.

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