Anchor

The gallery was filled with light
and the occasional click click of footsteps

          across the blond wood floor.
          There are times we are assured

radiance is still possible.
It is also clear a serpent lives in the heart

          and wraps itself around our fathomless
          thirst, deeper than the throat.

Even as we admire the charcoaled line
of a waist, we are learning how our bodies are

          not edges or the space they occupy,
          but motion. And we are learning to live

like the ship that sets anchor
then drifts all night, moored.

Poems by Lisa Sitkin: