Speak at This

The Iowa Review - - FRONT PAGE - Richard dem­ing

In a clear chro­mo­so­mal light of sud­den sight,

the tongue be­comes an un­likely weight.

There are hours when words will not come, in grief or joy, or in the star­tled whirl­wind when we don’t trust any love.

Not noth­ing now, some si­lence at­tests what more, what noun does not do. That is to say, syl­la­bles co­or­di­nate van­ish­ing in the ledger of lost chances. Try this: If an ap­ple, then ex­ile; a pome­gran­ate? Then win­ter­ing de­scent;

a glance back­ward, and the pupils of the eyes be­come a ban­ish­ment.

What Echo said was a name not worth re­peat­ing.

And thus a beau­ti­ful daugh­ter slides her thumb along her lower lip.

It blooms, it shat­ters.

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