Still, With I

Sandra Meek
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Girl inscribing in night

lightning’s sizzling trill,

whittling in pitch this bright

wiring, its divining stick’s split

kindling his witching wick, his

birdish ribs, wish’s thin fit;

girl, this wild which births limb

twining limb will still spirit

chill, flirt’s flit stilling



in flint. Girl mimicking

his wit’s gimmick, chiming

his insist—his is, his isn’t—kinking

his whip, kinging him

with rings, with in thick,

in thin, with pink icing’s

gilding scrim: in blinks, hitch

is pinch, listing in wind

his riffing wrists silk. Instinct’s

first high diminishing



in fifths. Girl skirting lightning

shrinking thin, thirst circling

his brim, I isn’t I

if middling in him.

If hindsight is insight

biding its timing, might

is might. Girl still rinsing

in light, this spring’s

still high: Girl, sink.


This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.

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