A Poem By Lisa Lubasch

by Mark Bibbins, Editor

[come to me, sweet stranger]

come to me, sweet stranger, and make of me a moment, a nostalgia, to give
to the wind, to give to the one, who is standing there, at the meeting place,
where the safety is immense, and not to tangle with, where the sentence
can arrive, as though through a spaciousness, surrounding her, through its
particulars, through its split, integument, intangible, what she will take,
what she will have, to wander, with, over the paths, with their names in
tow, in time, a morning, a motive,

come to me, sweet stranger, and make of me a ruthlessness, out of the fatigue,
a furlough or a breathlessness, to gather into the hands, to hone or hammer,
hurry, though, redemptive, as the gaze, untraceable, as the contagion,

come to me, sweet stranger, and make of me a henceforth, further, I am
willing to make it one, pronounceable, convinced of its own, utter,
patternlessness, through the wave, of inhumanity, throughout, the future,

come to me, sweet stranger, and make of me a yearning, out of the likelihood,
a line, to splinter, upwards, nearly, through the enlightenment, through its
trance, of tears, through barrenness, whiteness, to seize, the abruptness,

come to me, sweet stranger, and make of me a timing, to tow a way with, to
rival, like catastrophe, as if starting back from, to take away, foolishness,
from the beginning, from loneliness, from the atrocity,

come to me, sweet stranger, and make of me a lightness, a music, sweeps
through, much in the way of, wonder, originates, on the whim, which collapses,
underneath the weight, where there was none, to arrange, to redeem,

throughout, to begin with, tenderness

Lisa Lubasch is the author of four collections of poetry, including Twenty-One After Days. Her book So I Began is forthcoming. She co-edits the press Solid Objects.

You will find more poems here. You may contact the editor at [email protected].