I've been sending out my manuscript Slight Faith for two years now, adding to it, subtracting, rearranging the poems like furniture in a cave, trying to say what I need to say, and hoping with slight faith that someone will fall in love with it and publish it. Trying to be patient. Practicing forbearance. Meanwhile, I wonder if we are ever able to communicate our most intimate understandings. And I suspect the test of success is not in publication, but in some deeper satisfaction of intimacy that I believe (and perhaps this is the crux of my problem) is mythic and unreachable.
Faith is the slight stalk clutching tight the baby tooth
to its root. If it won’t let go, a father might tie a string
and slam the door. A mother might calmly let it fall
among the bedclothes while the child sleeps. Some
find coin beneath a pillow once it is gone.
But what is it that promises another truth will descend
from a hollow mouth to fill the socket?