by Brett Harrington


    Gelobt seist du, Niemand.—Celan

There won’t be
an answer

I understand.
You are

a word without
presence—

fleshless,
you are

born of
my breath:

I speak you
into you.

My quavering
voice

swells you,
bodies you,

ossifies
inside you,

and when I
feign mute

you leech
to my tongue

where you
wait to feed,

wait for me
to say:

I understand.
I understand.

The well
is sealed.

I must thirst.


BRETT HARRINGTON’S previous publications include Stirring, Burningword, Ligeia, Two Hawks Quarterly, The Shore, The Inflectionist Review, Third Coast, and elsewhere.


Photo: “Mist in Utah” by rainy city