All this work leads to holding both
At once. In the midst of the crowd
A woman services two men, serves
Might be a kinder word but we want this
Precise. Pressing a way through
To some bed or stage or platform is what
We do. And as she rises her body against
Each of them this makes the argument
Of resolution, of unlike moving into like
Until finally everything is the same.
We keep in time; this is not elsewhere.
Nowhere is the center more not the point,
What hand belongs to whom and where.
And to take turns and to bear
That someone goes first, which can never be
Exact or equal, is how faith must come
Into all that touch. Do not be astonished;
She has placed herself to be lost,
To be eaten while eating, a darkening
Bruise of too much, a guide of
Figuring which door to push against,
Already open. We watch for the ending
Not wanting it to end. What to know
That we did not before, save the ungodly
Angles. To do while being done. Polite the mirror
With anything possible; it is not about
Who wants whom more but you cannot help wondering
What happens to she who has been caught
As if between slides of glass—her body so useful.
What comes of each entrance given
Like bread to taste, to begin each day
As if starting over, considering what she has made
Of herself for herself by herself; and how
You could never have been her, until now, quiet
As a church, holy as a trinity, until just
Now the noise of trying to get it right.
Sophie Cabot Black