| I wake, doubt, beside you, like a curtain half-open. I dress doubting, like a cup undecided if it has been dropped. I eat doubting, work doubting, go out to a dubious cafe with skeptical friends. I go to sleep doubting myself, as a herd of goats sleep in a suddenly gone-quiet truck. I dream you, doubt, nightly— for what is the meaning of dreaming if not that all we are while inside it is transient, amorphous, in question? Left hand and right hand, doubt, you are in me, throwing a basketball, guiding my knife and my fork. Left knee and right knee, we run for a bus, for a meeting that surely will end before we arrive. I would like to grow content in you, doubt, as a double-hung window settles obedient into its hidden pulleys and ropes. I doubt I can do so: your own counterweight governs my nights and my days. As the knob of hung lead holds steady the open mouth of a window, you hold me, my kneeling before you resistant, stubborn, offering these furious praises I can’t help but doubt you will ever be able to hear. Copyright © 2016 by Jane Hirshfield. Used with permission of the author. |
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