Logos as Alchemical Marriage and Each Other in the Dance
By Li-Young Lee
Wrist,
neck,
shoulder,
waist,
you turn.
And I turn with you.
Glance,
grasp,
blush,
breath,
you turn.
And I turn with you.
You turn
to circle away
as your hand arrives
in time
to meet mine turning
as I too turn
away to see you coming
around
from behind me, round,
all birds now, smiling
to see my face smiling
to see your face,
both of us now swept
away again
only to turn in wide return
toward each other in the dance.
Be my lamb, you say.
I’m your lamb, I say.
Be my wolf, you say.
I’m your wolf, I say.
Love, you say,
my heart is mountain range after mountain range,
river after river,
a wilderness older
than our mothers and fathers.
Love, I say,
my heart fits in two hands, see?
And comes apart along ancestral seams
and faults that run back
to our first mother and father.
Spindle, axle, spire, tree, you turn.
Wings, I turn with you. Wings
in ascending
and descending
orders of influence and brightness.
Drum, bracelet, ankle bell, you turn.
Wings in legion and squadron, I turn with you,
wings turning
in silent momentum
of inward turning
and outer stillness.
A castle, a garden, the night with stars,
you turn.
A ring, a book, the lip of a cup,
you turn.
The object of desire,
the body of the Beloved,
you turn.
And part of you will always be
turned toward the dark.
And I turn with you.
Voices in a room by the sea,
I turn with you.
The dream of refuge
the winged dream,
born headlong flying,
I turn with you.
The dream of rest
the falling dream
when suddenly they know they’re falling,
the lover and the beloved turning in a dance,
life and death their grist,
Time the spit
upon which they twine.
Entwined, they are one.
They make two,
each turning about
an adamant center. Their turning
is full of light and heat and sound. Turning,
their gazes conjure space,
their speech engenders
thresholds and lintels,
gardens, rooms, and fountains.
You turn, and I turn fast, following you,
knowing,
while our turning is one
turning and true,
you can’t hold me,
I can’t hold you.
Though you hold me.
Though I hold you.
No one holds anyone or anything.
There’s no place to rest.
There’s nothing to hold.
Though you hold me and hold me.
Though I hold you and hold you.
And we go on turning.
Notes:
This poem is part of the portfolio honoring Li-Young Lee as the recipient of the 2024 Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, a recognition for outstanding lifetime achievement from the Poetry Foundation. Established in 1986 by Ruth Lilly, the prize is one of the most prestigious awards given to living US poets. Read the rest of the portfolio in the October 2024 issue.
Source: Poetry (October 2024)