Fertile Ground: Selected Poetry Read

On the Edge

A blade in the bed of a child
will slice up nightmare
into simpler hungers.

But a knife is a dangerous gift
girl brave enough to be crazy
you may never read this poem again
so commit it like sin
or a promise to the place
where poetry arms your beauty
with a hundred knives
some minded in the hills above Whydah
for a good-looking Creek
on the run.

The rhythms of your long body
do not yet move in my blood
but the first full moon of this year
is a void of course moon
I dream I am precious rock
touching the edge of you
that needs
the moon’s loving.

From Our Dead Behind Us by Audre Lorde copyright 1986