The Thing Itself Poem by Kezziah Hopkins

do you remember when we watched the moon
(ostensibly) that night, shivering in the cold,
sitting on the hill afraid to speak?
i think i told you then i liked your nose,
and we sat, silent, knowing the blatancy
of the gentle euphemism. the thing itself
was far too tremulous and new to say

(last night i woke my mother up at half-past
twelve, and, huddled under blankets, talked of
faith and hope and you and all the things i cannot
say, but wonder if you know. this morning i am sleepy,
and you smile at me, but you do not know why)

-

now that i have come to it, even this thing is not enough,
cannot be quite good enough to say