The Poem
by Judith Barrington
It hides in my heart, waiting as if
in the small circle at the middle
of the labyrinth. I walk towards it
but the path turns away by a purple foxglove
and I must follow the windings that will
in the end lead me to the center.
It smells of cedars and honey'd skin,
cappuccino with grated chocolate,
the brine of its own body's betrayal.
Like a chestnut horse, it hides in shadow,
one white sock and the moist gleam of an eye
announcing its steady presence.
It has lodged in my heart like a stone in the shoe:
each time the great muscle contracts
I feel it rubbing the same tender spot;
there is no avoiding it -- no limping or hopping,
no shaking it to a more comfortable place,
no stillness that can ease the bruise
except the stillness of a motionless heart.
It is the door behind which somebody stands
waiting to kiss and be kissed.
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