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Adrienne Rich - Twenty-One Love Poems VII
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	VII
	
What kind of beast would turn its life into words?
	What atonement is this all about?
	--and yet, writing words like these, I’m also living.
	Is all this close to the wolverines’ howled signals,
	that modulated cantata of the wild?
	or, when away from you I try to create you in words,
	am I simply using you, like a river or a war?
	And how have I used rivers, how have I used wars
	to escape writing of the worst thing of all—
	not the crimes of others, not even our own death,
	but the failure to want our freedom passionately enough
	so that blighted elms, sick rivers, massacres would seem
	mere emblems of that desecration of ourselves?
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
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