weekend-readsYet Not Consumed

Mary Szybist

But give me the frost of your name
in my mouth, give me
spiny fruits and scaly husks —
give me breath

to say aloud to the breathless clouds
your name, to say
I am, let me need
to say it and still need you
to give me need, to make me
into what is needed, what you need,

no more than that I am, no more
than the stray winds on my neck, the salt
of your palm on my tongue, no more

than need, a neck that will bend
lower to what I am so
give me creeping, give me clouds that hang
low and sweep the blue of the sky
to its edges, let me taste the edges, the bread-colored clouds,
here I am, give me

thumb and fingers, give me only
what I need, a turn here
to turn what I am
into I am, what your name writ in clouds
writ on me

Back to top ↑

Sign up for Our Email Newsletter