12. BEGIN BY THE TOUCH

From the Archives (March 2005)

IO
by Olga Broumas

One would know nothing.
One would begin by the touch
return to her body,
One would forget
even the three
soft cages
where summer lasts.
One would regret nothing.
One would first touch the mouth
then the warm
pulsing places that wait
that wait
and the last song around them
a shed of light.
A crumpled apron, a headcloth, a veil.
One would keep nothing.
By the still mouths of fear
one would listen. Desire
would spill past each lip
and caution. That which is light
would remain.
That which is
still would grow fertile.