Menu

Poetry

In this marrow season,
trunks tarnished, paused,

I am garden. Am before.
Asleep. Then the changes:

placental, myrrhed. Wet hem
when you appeared.

What did your body ever have to do
with me? In my astonished mouth,

enskulled molars guessed,
though as yet I did not know you.

You sprung. You now intransitive,
tense with heaven.

Gardener, which of us said do not touch.
Which one of us was undressed?


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Related Poetry

image of white moon in pale blue sky, seen through a round circle rimming the edges of the frame.

Mosque

By

Elisabeth Murawski

[Today, having swigged a half-liter]

By

Dimitri Psurtsev

an empty hospital bed with the covers askew in a room lit by evening dusk.

Waiting

By

Sarah Klassen

a painting of crashing waves against the shore with a yellow sky

An Icon from the Flood

By

Daniel Tobin

Pin It on Pinterest