I think I’ve found a new favorite poet. “The Lovers” by Dorianne Laux (1952- ) wraps the reader in the sensual, pulsing rhythm of love-making. It opens a window on that place we go outside of ourselves, the need that takes us there, and the inevitable vulnerability.
She is about to come. This time,/they are sitting up, joined below the belly,/feet cupped like sleek hands praying/at the base of each other’s spines….
And when she lifts her face he sees/ where she’s gone, knows she can’t speak,/is traveling toward something essential/toward the core of her need, so he simply/ watches, steadily, with an animal calm/as she arches and screams, watches the face that,/ if she could see it, she would never let him see.
The best thing about reading poetry is when an image catches hold and sparks a new idea. “The Lovers” has planted a seed of a new story for me. Now I’ll have to tend it and see how it grows.