How bitter is bitter without the sweet.
We taste test it, then retreat behind cups
of wine. Dip and drip droplets from goblets
onto our plates. Count the plagues like blessings,
like sheep on sleepless nights, which makes this night
different from all the others. We turn
the page with the help of the hand of God,
repeat the phrases from the sages set
down from other ages. Unfurl our tongues
to pronounce all those once-familiar words,
the sounds that catch in the throat, trace the years.
Open the door to the vagabond soul
waiting outside, deciding to come in.
Where is enough ever enough and when?
Deborah H. Doolittle has lived in lots of different places, but now calls North Carolina home. Her recent publications include FLORIBUNDA and BOGBOUND. Some of her poems have appeared or will soon appear in Comstock Review, Ibbetson Street, Iconoclast, Pinyon Review, Rattle, Slant, and The Stand. An avid birdwatcher, she shares a home with her husband, four housecats, and a backyard full of birds.
