I’ve searched for you in all the places where you are not.
It seemed that part of you had escaped
into the library: maybe your head; your white
beard gone into pages.
It seemed that if I learned to see in the darkness
of ravines, in the chasms of history, I might see
Searching for your voice I climbed up to the red throat
of volcanoes, afraid you might be in the fire and demand
sacrifices from me.
And I have swum deep in the sea, thinking the oceans
were your tears, when you used to weep with laughter.
One day, when I’d already stopped looking for you, some hands, anointed
with questions like mine, stroked the back of my neck.
And on these hands there were finger-nails.
And thus, in the littlest places of all, I have seen your naked smallness.
Because if you made me in your own image and likeness, you are
a) a woman
b) fragile as a poem
c) the one they tell me to keep quiet about. That must be why
I hear you, God, in the silence.
Selected poems from “Música i escorbut”