“With a Child” by Franz Wright

A Redivider online exclusive.

WITH A CHILD

Look at us. (Something does.) Smaller than life.

Much smaller. A sudden wind blows

through the new leaves and they are gone;

time blows through your hair,

the river of the dead

whose name’s forgiveness, very

small, a blue vein

in your temple. And the words

for these things are so terribly small;

and the world of those words

only slightly less mortal

than this instant of taking your hand,

of taking care to look both ways,

not to squeeze too hard. Or be too aware

that no such mercy will be proffered

by a world that has no need

of words, or us. And in the meantime

here I am still, silently asking

for—what? You guessed it. Words,

my God, not in Your tongue; the way

the mad mutter to keep themselves company,

to keep themselves from thinking. Words. Once

they did to the world what love does! Now,

to quiet and conceal my sorry terror,

they’re going to have to do.

Franz Wright has authored over sixteen books of poetry and several translations. He received the Pulitzer Prize in 2004 for Walking to Martha’s Vineyard. His most recent collection of poetry, Wheeling Motel, will be published in September 2009 by Knopf.