Emblem Poem by Maxine Chernoff

The chambered air
remembered—
surgical, smooth,
until location itself
seemed an invention
of will. The house,
particular to our longings,
its blue light dimming
then returning
to the story every morning.
With no name
for love's statuary
its swans or ready doves,
its trees awaiting
clarification, objects
drifted until we recovered
the ancient art
of listening as we
spoke our names
in a new language
occasioned by desire.