"The Origins of Desire," by Diane Ackerman

[voleuse]

The Origins of Desire
by Diane Ackerman

After the first axe of love,
the royal palaces splinter
as the Atlantis of childhood
sinks below memory waves,
laughter drowns,
and truth dissolves in tear-salt.

What ruins remain?
Scattered fragments of mosaic
-- a shove here, a cry there,
nubby fabric, dark pain,
cameo debris potent as myth.
Too saturated to fade, they refuse
the metamorphosis of symbol.

If only they were symbols,
those bright tiles of sensation,
hard as rubble, jagged shards
of an event the brain snags on,
fidgets with like a holy relic
without remembering why.

Muscle memory, dancers call it.
Because the heart is muscle,
the dance continues
without plan, sense or season.

Meanwhile, on the harp of the mind,
ritual fingers pluck
at phrases of an ancient song
the body remembers,
the senses remember,
even the feelings remember.
The mind alone forgets.

From Origami Bridges by Diane Ackerman.