A bee in the field. The house on the mountain reveals itself to have been there through summer. It's not a bee but a horse eating frosted grass in the yawn light. Secrets, the anguish of smoke above the chimney as it shreds what it's learned of fire. The horse has moved, it's not a horse but a woman doing the stations of the cross with a dead baby in her arms. The anguish of the house as it reveals smoke to the mountain. A woman eating cold grass in Your name, shredding herself like fire. The woman has stopped, it's not a woman but smoke on its knees keeping secrets in what it reveals. The everything has moved, it's not everything but a shredding of the anguish of names. The marriage of light: particle to wave. Do you take? I do.
From Words for Empty and Words for Full, published by University of Pittsburgh Press. Copyright © 2011 by Bob Hicok. Used by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.
Bob Hicok was born in 1960. His poetry collection This Clumsy Living (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2007) was awarded the 2008 Bobbitt Prize from the Library of Congress.
Date Published: 2011-01-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/epithalamium-0