1019. Figment at the Beginning of Something. . . - David Watts

My son brings me a stone and asks

which star it fell from,

he is serious

and so I must be careful, even though

I know he will place it

among those things that will leave him

someday, and he

will go on gathering. For this

is one of those moments

that turns suddenly towards you, opening

as it turns, as if for a moment

we paused on the edge

of a heart beat, conscious

of the fear that runs beside us

and how lovely it is to be with each other

in the long resilient mornings.

1018. Poema - Maria Teresa Horta

Poema by Maria Teresa Horta

Translated from the Portuguese by Lesley Saunders

I let him come.

He sneaks on tiptoe

right up to my ear;

under its ribs my heart

quivers, quickens

as the excitement mounts:

first the forest appears,

then the woodland-sequel,

more mist than snow to the touch –

from the new poem’s

very first line the paper sucks up

every waif-word

and an ugliness steals in,

a cunning hungry thing

crouching there incognito,

pretending to be tame and yet so wolfish

that he’s the kernel of light

and then the noise of its cracking;

he’s lithe on the path,

doubling back on himself,

running with the pack, loping alone;

pussy-footing through the night

he trails moonlight behind him

like a mink coat.

I feel him when the hairs on my skin

lift, and in the delicious dizziness

of my private pulse –

in the midst of my writing, in my dream-life,

I slip all his clothes slowly off

and slide him down beside me.