.
.
For fertility, a new bride is lifted to touch it with her left hand,
or possibly kiss it.
The sound close in, my friend told me later, is almost silent.
.
At ten kilometers, even those who have never heard it know what it is.
.
If you stand near during thunder, she said,
you will hear a reply.
.
She who cooked lamb and loved wine and wild-mushroom pastas.
She who when I saw her last was silent as the great Zygmunt mostly is,
a ventilator's clapper between her dry lips.
.
Because I could, I spoke. She laid her palm on my cheek to answer.
And soon again, to say it was time to leave.
.
I put my lips near the place a tube went into
the back of one hand.
The kiss - as if it knew what I did not yet - both full and formal.
.
As one would kiss the ring of a cardinal, or the rim
of that cold iron bell, whose speech can mean "Great joy,"
or - equally - "The city is burning. Come."
.
~ Jane Hirshfield
from After
.
