Jorie Graham


 

                                                     Summer Solstice

 

Here it is now, emergent, as if an eagerness, a desire to say there this is 
                                                     done this is 
                                                     concluded I have given all I have the store 
                                                     is full the  
                                                     crop is 
in the counsel has decided the head and shoulders of the invisible have been re- 
                                                     configured sewn back together melded—the extra 
                                                     seconds of light like 
hearing steps come running towards me, then here you 
                                                     are, you came all this  
                                                     distance, 
you could call it matrimony it is not an illusion it can be calculated to the last position 
                                                     consider no further think no longer all 
                                                     art of 
persuasion ends here, the head has been put back on the body, it stands before us  
                                                     entire—it has been proven—all the pieces have  
been found—the broken thing for an instant entire—oh strange 
                                                     addition and sum, here is no other further step 
to be taken, we have arrived, all the rest now a falling 
                                                     back—but not yet not now now is all now and
here—the end of the day will not end—will stay with us 
                                                     this fraction longer— 
                                                     the hands of it all extending— 
                                                     & where they would have turned away they wait, 
there is nothing for now after this we shall wait, 
                                                     shall wait that it reach us, this inch of finishing, 
in what do you believe it leans out to suggest, slant, 
                                                     as if to mend it the rip, the longest day of this one year,
                                                     not early and not late, un-  
earned, unearnable—accruing to nothing, also to no one—how many more will I
                                                     see—no—wrong question—old question—how 
                                                     strange that it be in 
                                                     truth not now  
conceivable, not as a thing-as-such, the personal death of 
                                                     an I—& the extra millisecond adds itself to this day, 
& learns, it too, to interline the cheek of light 
                                                     given to the widening face  
                                                     that stares at us holds us excels at 
being—stands, dwells, purrs, allows—what can we say to it—standing in it— 
                                                     quickly it arrives at full, no, not quickly, it 
arrives, at fullest, then there it is, the
                                                     brim, where the fullness 
                                                     stocks, pools, feeds, in- 
                                                     dwells, is a 
yes, I look up, I see your face through the window looking up,  
                                                     see you bend to the 
                                                     horizon-line,  
do not myself look out at it, no, look at you,
                                                     at the long life of having-looked as a way of believing  
                                                     now in your  
                                                     thinking 
face, & how natural the passage of time, and death, had felt to us, & how you 
                                                     cannot  
                                                     comprehend the thing you are meant 
                                                     to be looking  
                                                     for
now, & you are weighing something, you are out under the sky 
                                                     trying to feel   
                                                     the  
                                                     future, there it is now in your almost invisible 
squinting to the visible, & how I feel your heart beat slowly out there in the garden  
                                                     as we both see the 
                                                     dove 
                                                     in the 
                                                     youngest acacia 
& how it is making its nest again this year, how it chose the second ranking  
                                                     offshoot
again, how the young tree strains at the stake in the wind, & within, 
                                                     the still head of the mother sitting as if all time  
                                                     came down to 
                                                     this, the ringed neck, the  
                                                     mate’s call from the 
roof, & how we both know not to move—me inside at the window, deep summer, dusk, 
                                                     you in the line of sight of the 
                                                     bird, & also of the 
                                                     hawk changing sides of the field as 
                                                     usual,
& the swallows riding the lowest currents, reddish, seeking their feed. 

 


© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review