I want to tell you how the white horse moves
in the pasture, its ribs extended, the warmth
of the sun on my ankles, the yellow colors
in the painting I love. How do I describe the taste
of just-picked grapes at the Tabarrini Vineyard?
or the weight of a child heavy on my shoulder,
the ripe smell of baby’s breath? Where are
words to replace tears after another school shooting?
or define delight in a leaf-cupped raindrop?
Locked in generalization like any woman bound
in a loveless marriage, no hope of escape, I ask
myself if words are important. Yes, I am a poet.
I need details, the names of things, steel to saw
you in half like a Vegas magician, then resurrect you.
The Names of Things
