Aug 24, 2010


Written by Ida Stewart

Read by Corrie Williamson

Because we’re looking for the Seven Sisters,
that’s why we’re here, embedded in the grass
like river rocks in silt or little moons
of deer eyes in the woods, or constellations
like pushpins holding up the heft of night—
and damn, if it weren’t for the clouds. We say we’re here
for the sake of ritual—yes, ritual, rite—
an ordinary out-of-the-ordinary
duty to warm air and this patch of sky.
And what is any night but a threshold kiss?
I’m thinking temporary, temporary.
Conditions were perfect 300 million years
ago, so now, a thousand feet of darkness
below us, men are paid by the ton to haul
out pieces of the dark, a handful of coal
as black as emptiness, as our mountain holding
its shape against the sky tonight, the gown
tearing at its seams, but holding. We think
we’re in the dark but we have no idea.
We think that we have time to burn and lean
together as if against the inevitable.
As if space might cave. I’m thinking patience
and the dark line of lips touching—pursed
or in a kiss, a border is a border.