For h, tiny fire
in the hollow of the throat,
opener of every hey
hi, how are you,
hello; chums with c,
with t, shy lover of s;
there and not
there—never seen,
hardly heard, yet
real as air
fluttering the oak,
holding up the hawk;
the sound
of a yawn, of sleep, of heat,
a match, its quivering
orange flame
turning wood into light,
light into breath;
the sound
of stars if stars
could be heard, perhaps
the sound
of space; life speaking life:
warm air endowed
to hard clay—
a heart, hurt,
a desire to be healed—
the work
of bees stuck in the nubs
of hollyhocks
and columbine, time
to the extent that time
is light, is bright
as the match,
the flame of the sun,
real as the muffled hush
of sleep,
the fluttering oak,
the bee, the silent oh
in the throat
when a hand is laid
upon the shoulder;
hunger—
the body’s empty cry
for filling, for loving,
for knowing
the intimacy of breath,
of half-breathed words
fragile as the stars:
hollow, hush,
holy.
Photography credit: "Fire Letter H," by RAStudio (originally color).
I found a web page on the poet: http://abigail-carroll.com/. The biography is more recent than your posting of this poem. From http://abigail-carroll.com/about-me (which lists her books and places she's been published): Carroll is a poet and author who holds a PhD in American Studies from Boston University, where she has taught history and writing. She makes her home in Vermont, where she serves as pastor of arts and spiritual formation at Church at the Well.
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