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Savage Bride

You need me like ice needs the mountain

On which it breeds. Like print needs the page.

You move in me like the tongue in a mouth,

Like wind in the leaves of summer trees,

Gust-fists, hollow except of movement and desire

Which is movement. You taste me the way the claws

Of a pigeon taste that window ledge on which it sits,

The way water tastes rust in the pipes it shuttles through

Beneath a city, unfolding and luminous with industry.

Before you were born, the table of elements

Was lacking, and I as a noble gas floated

Free of attachment. Before you were born,

The sun and the moon were paper-thin plates

Some machinist at his desk merely clicked into place.

from You Darling Thing Find more by Monica Ferrell at the library

Copyright © 2018 Monica Ferrell
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

Published in Monica Ferrell Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.