Dog Tag Poem by Jane Hirshfield
Dog Tag
At last understanding
that everything my friend had been saying
for the thirty-three months since he knew
were words of the dog tag, words of, whatever else,
the milled and stamped-into metal of what stays behind.
Blackcap Mountain. Blue scorpion venom. Persimmon pudding.
He spoke them.
He could not say love enough times.
It clinked against itself, it clinked against its little chain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/3/2024 9:37:23 PM # 1.0.0.1119
