Sink Your Fingers into the Darkness of my Fur

Up until this sore minute, you could turn the key, pivot away.

But mine is the only medicine now

wherever you go or follow.

The past is so far away, but it flickers,

then cleaves the night. The bones

of the past splinter between our teeth.

This is our life, love. Why did I think

it would be anything less than too much

of everything? I know you remember that cheap motel

on the coast where we drank red wine,

the sea flashing its gold scales as sun

soaked our skin. You said, This must be

what people mean when they say

I could die now. Now

we’re so much closer

to death than we were then. Who isn’t crushed,

stubbed out beneath a clumsy heel?

Who hasn’t stood at the open window,

sleepless, for the solace of the damp air?

I had to get old to carry both buckets

yoked on my shoulders. Sweet

and bitter waters I drink from.

Let me know you, ox you.

I want your scent in my hair.

I want your jokes.

Hang your kisses on all my branches, please.

Sink your fingers into the darkness of my fur.

 

Credit

Copyright © 2020 by Ellen Bass. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on February 13, 2020, by the Academy of American Poets.

About this Poem

“One of my students shared an exercise in which she read a poem written in a language she didn't understand and then wrote her own faux translation sonically, using an English word that sounded similar to the foreign word. Of course this is a kind of Rorschach test in which you write your own heart, even as you allow yourself to be led. I peeked at the real translation of the title of Ollie Heikkonen's poem and used that for mine. Then I started off with a somewhat close faux translation, veered off on my own associations, returned, veered off again a number of times, free style. I'm grateful to Ollie Heikkonen and the actual translator, Maria Lyytinen.”
—Ellen Bass