for Priscilla

I saw you making love
in the ruins of Hiroshima,
your body sighing,
like the parting of atmospheres,
like air whistling
at the shape of its destruction,
its resistance equal,
to feathers, or gold,
a measured descent
of principle, or love.

I saw you making love
in the streets of Calcutta,
your body respected,
like a cow by the poor,
its passage assured
as gravity’s pull,
or the tug on the heart
of worship, or fear—
whatever falls away.

I saw you making love
in the ovens of Dachau,
your body lifted,
like an ash from its boundaries,
but so light, with such joy,
the mind could not bear it,
calling it escape,
calling it down.

I saw you making love
in the graves of My Lai,
your body aflame,
inside and out, like the sun,
as its nature, or sacrifice
commands, its duty to warn:
this close, no more;

ours, to try.