Ken Babstock


Best Poem of Ken Babstock

The Sling Of Two Arms

I held her not well, didn't
hold her well, jumped
my gaze from one eye to her other,
seeing neither, pinned one
deadwood arm that numbed, then
fell. I held her unwell.

The veneer headboard bent, wavered,
its false grain a-swim like
the clean code on a wave-washed
shell. To not be present is hell -
no, to remember having been absent;
indisputably bodily there, legs,

lungs, teeth, and all, but watching oneself
watching oneself holding her -
and not well. She hung ...

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