11
(Villanelle I)
The body remembers. Images were all the soul could see.
The desires of the flesh, the sharp pain of a nail.
What’s cold and white-hot no soul keeps eternally.
Even types of pain can’t be exchanged. A grazed knee
and the wasp in the grass. Likenesses will always fail.
The body remembers. Images were all the soul could see.
Each hour had something sharp and something soft that only
it was made for. Each love’s scent is unique in type and scale.
What’s cold and white-hot no soul keeps eternally.
Once we drank tea at this table, now all one can see
are mouldered bits of teak to tell the tale.
The body remembers. Images were all the soul could see.
Of these once warm days rotten bits of teak are all you see.
Predicting logic for desire and pain’s to no avail.
What’s cold and white-hot no soul keeps eternally.
Above a lose-path forest hosts of birds cry noisily.
Just birdsong did the body know, and without fail.
The body remembers. Images were all the soul could see.
What’s far too cold and white-hot no soul keeps eternally.
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