By Barbara Jordan
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Extra resources for Channel
Sweat, heft, shoulder, thigh, lunge. Because you wear yourself like a suit I could never afford, my arms strain and pretend. My breath falls through its own trapdoor. I who have said, let the thing be what it is. Who fed popular children coins of attention, held down the cowed corners of my eighth-grade dances. Just now I've forgotten your answer. In this garage, where wrecked cans of motor oil compete with garden tools for a dying season, you row the silver barbell up and I'm meant to see everything injures.
We were speaking in Greek. I said I believed that human beings were imperfect, the word for that being unfinished, that we were alive because we were unfinished, and that, since god was life, embracing the imperfect was embracing god. I normally speak English in my dreams so another language inscribes its effort on my consciousness, and I woke with the sequence as vivid as the crumpled pages of Barresi's poems, her sturdy, insolent, bedraggled dancers older than God, than dirt, doing the Lindy, the Bop, the oh Page xii restless for consummation tango.
Kissing once, we turn our pillows to a cooler side and sleep. We like it this way, missing each other now with an easy camaraderie found sometimes between war buddies or strangers who've seen the same freak accident, Page 48 and after, walk up the beach together, tacking into wind. " We'll ask it over and over. But our hands are birds called home in hard weather, in this moment before parting when we gesture back flutteringly, toward the small lone figure receding in the ocean's swells: out of earshot, asleep on his raft, happy for all we know.