Down to Sighs
From Wikipen
(a sestina)
Thoughts most urgently felt begin with sighs:
impossible to render in a letter,
more so with the quickening pulse,
the inexorable trembling of fingers
fluttering from sweat-moist hands
desperate for the catharsis of writing.
You never notice the inadequacy of writing
so much as when trying to transliterate sighs
or the fretful, anguished wringing of hands
that pales when spelled out letter by letter:
a thousand words to depict ten fingers,
so many every frame to make them pulse.
Divergent thoughts racing with my pulse
linger just long enough for writing,
hindered by suddenly clumsy fingers
pausing to accommodate insistent sighs.
How much easier to compose a letter
without the intermediary of hands!
I try to still frantic hands—
perhaps I wouldn't double my pulse
at the thought of sending a letter
if the infinitesimal nuances of writing
that distinguish relieved from despairing sighs
could be measured off on trembling fingers.
I cannot let you slip through my fingers
so soon after holding you in my hands.
If only I could send you sighs,
the dread that stops my pulse:
what soulless pedant made writing
the sole component of a letter?
I have labored over every letter,
chewed the nails from spent fingers
rereading page upon page of writing.
The pen drops from inkstained hands,
my wrists a Rorschach with a pulse,
evaluating the reactions of my sighs.
I hold the finished letter in my hands,
sure my fingers throb with every pulse,
and crumple the writing down to sighs.
