Perishable, It Said
by Jane Hirshfield
Perishable,
it said on the plastic container,
and below, in different
ink,
the date to be used by, the
last teaspoon consumed.
I found myself looking:
now at the back of each
hand,
now inside the knees,
now turning over each foot
to look at the sole.
Then at the leaves of the
young tomato plants,
then at the arguing jays.
Under the wooden table and
lifted stones, looking.
Coffee cups, olives,
cheeses,
hunger, sorrow, fears—
these too would certainly
vanish, without knowing when.
How suddenly then
the strange happiness took
me,
like a man with strong
hands and strong mouth,
inside that hour with its
perishing perfumes and clashings.
From Come, Thief © Knopf, 2011.
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