Saint Francis and the Sow

this little piggy

The bud

stands for all things,

even for those things that don’t flower,

for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;

though sometimes it is necessary

to reteach a thing its loveliness,

to put a hand on its brow

of the flower

and retell it in words and in touch

it is lovely

until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;

as Saint Francis

put his hand on the creased forehead

of the sow, and told her in words and in touch

blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow

began remembering all down her thick length,

from the earthen snout all the way

through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,

from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine

down through the great broken heart

to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering

from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths

sucking and blowing beneath them:

the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

— Galway Kinnell

for her

for herWhat happened, happened once. So now it’s best
in memory — an orange he sliced: the skin
unbroken, then the knife, the chilled
wedge lifted to my mouth, his mouth, the thin
membrane between us, the exquisite orange,
tongue, orange, my nakedness and his…
Beside the stove we ate an orange.
And there were purple flowers on the table.
And we still had hours.

— kim addonizio

 

idyll

idyll

A new star has been discovered,
which doesn’t mean that things have gotten brighter
or that something we’ve been missing has appeared.

The star is large and distant,
so distant that it’s small,
even smaller than the others
much smaller than it.
Small wonder, then, if we were stuck with wonder;
as we would be if only we had the time.

— wislawa szymborska