For a long time I would not go to bed.
You’ll remember those months and the sky
like the tip of a finger dipped in wax.
Every time I felt pleasure I held my breath—
why did you write over that line in your letter?
The snow made me forget how hot the blood is.
How another person can step into a room,
as if out of a painting,
and offer me a life.
Can you feel which part of your body this poem goes to?
Your fingers or teeth,
the top of your chest—
does it touch your face?
I was thinking we could see each other again.
At night, with our masks on,
so we know exactly who to look for.
I’ll read you this fragment of Proust
before the next snowfall, so neither us of will forget …
the better part of our memory exists outside us,
in a blatter of rain, in the smell of an unaired room ...
For Slate's poetry submission guidelines, click here. Click here to visit Robert Pinsky's Favorite Poem Project site. Click here for an archive of discussions about poems with Robert Pinsky in "the Fray," Slate's reader forum.
TODAY IN SLATE
The World’s Politest Protesters
The Occupy Central demonstrators are courteous. That’s actually what makes them so dangerous.
The Religious Right Is Not Happy With Republicans
The Fashion World Has Made “Feminist” a Meaningless Label
The Feds Have Declared War on New Privacy Measures From Apple and Google
These “Dark” Lego Masterpieces Are Delightful and Evocative
How White Boy Rick, a legendary Detroit cocaine dealer, helped the FBI uncover brazen police corruption.
Black people’s disdain for “proper English” and academic achievement is a myth.