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by Rachel Hadas
Form and content want to be each other,
wrote a poet now two decades dead.
Purpose beyond the play of light and color?
Nope, there is none, my beloved said.
He is a father and I am a mother,
he of a daughter, I a son, both grown.
But also now we nurture one another,
My joy, my heart, my self in you, our own
astonishing discovery, the mind
now yours, his, whose possession we forget.
Silent colors throbbing on a screen:
face to face lips and eyes, no words, give light
steering us past the arid paths we knew.
My soul slides out of me and into you.