by Jane Zwart
At the far boundary
of your innocence
you will wake, aching
against a pair
of disappeared hips,
and you will realize
what you want.
Years later
the same dream—
but roused from it
by the rumpled man
beside you,
you will realize
what you have.
Tutored by dreams
you will drive the car
that refuses to brake
again and again
into the lake, slaking
the death drive.
You will have
and lose children.
You will speak
in tongues.
You will fall,
one collapsing floor
at a time, down
the Tower of Babel,
and climb
Jacob’s ladder,
sentinel angels
on every rung.
In night class,
you will read
the words off a page
and wake
with their taste
in your mouth,
not remembering
the verse.
How hard,
that morning,
to brush your teeth.
The lesson is loss
and the lesson
is unfathomable having.
Jane Zwart teaches English at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have previously appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry, Ploughshares, Rattle, Threepenny Review, and TriQuarterly.
Author Website: janezwart.com
Twitter: @_janezwart_