In This Sense, Beyond
Better to think, the descent before me is a strangers.
Its ache routing a body I do not know. Its nos
formed by lips never parted. Better to let
the mind feel the best it can and shatter
the heart, its recycling machinery.
Better to have all that gray matter act,
to have it call up coherence
out of some lobe in the left brain. Compassion again
sends my hand to the heat and sweat of this forehead,
again bends my torso over this torso, keeping it
nameless, refusing. For above all, I know to desire
sweetness:
Let the mouth be fitted to earth, concede gracefully,
the inevitable incorporating compelled. Disentangle
from all brooding, sidestep this wilderness preceding Amen.
-Claudia Rankine
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