Tongues

by Antonia Clark
I once loved a man who spoke in tongues,
who sang me rapturous
in the way of the river, in the way
of the waterfall, stunning the senses
with tingling light.

Above him, I was the mist that settled
into the valley at dawn. Beneath him,
I was the streambed, richly silted,
strewn with shining stones.

His language was a lesson in intention
and desire, a landscape where words
shrugged off the worldly, rose up
naked and true, gathered

into new constellations.

From him I learned the difference
between what is spoken and what is said,
learned that silence is a door that longs
to be opened, that any syllable
can be a lock. Or a key.
Antonia Clark works for a medical software company in Burlington, Vermont, and is co-administrator of an online poetry workshop, The Waters. Recent  poems have appeared in The 2River View, Anderbo, Apparatus Magazine,The Cortland Review, Soundzine, Umbrella, and elsewhere. She loves French food and wine, and plays French café music on a sparkly purple accordion.

© 2010, Antonia Clark