Menu

Poetry

The Piano, Jane Campion (1993)

May it be as it was in our rhapsodies.
Tethered to you,

oneiric assemblage of sea salt
ivory: you playing me

as I imagine the gods have,
cavorting on their mountain of stone.

Forgive me. This our default
condition: each of us versions of the other’s

own making. Call me melancholia. Whatever
you like, love, awash in you—call me

the horizon, a noose’s useless slack line,
call me whatever name

the pacing beast between us goes by.
I open myself for no other. What are we

if not vowels of thirst—
what are we when our hour has come.

Aphonic. Night-struck,
in tongues for which we have none.


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

Lent: Deformed Pussy Willow

By

Anya Silver

Minium

By

Melissa Range

a table lined with candles in small glasses in the dark of a cathedral.

Sandalwood

By

Robert A. Fink

Image of Lorezno Ghiberti's Gates of Paradise. People stand in front of a large arched door.

Unrestored Prophet’s Head

By

David Wright

Pin It on Pinterest