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Recorded for Poem-a-Day, November 2, 2017.
About this Poem 
“This poem started when I was looking something up in the Oxford English Dictionary—I think it was resolve—and came across the archaic word irresolubleness, an early listed usage of which was the phrase I wound up employing as a title. Very simply, the poem took shape from there as I began considering what else might possess diamonds’ indestructibility, which, since they are stones and resemble ice, I associate with extreme cold. The difficulty of destroying diamonds has always intrigued me; it puts me in mind of some lovely, obscurely chilling lines from Franz Wright’s ‘Simultaneous Sentences,’ namely ‘Only diamonds can cut diamonds, though / to do any such thing / they have no wish.’”
—Monica Ferrell 
 

Of the Irresolubleness of Diamonds

If my love for you were a teacup,
I would praise it for its blue. I’d consider
Its delicate handle, the pictures painted there
Of ladies, of their parasols.
But my love is not a teacup,
 
It is not even the tar pit from which we draw
Fodder for the desolate streets, oh lightless at night,
Oh pathways asking for feet and their memory,
It is not even a tugboat going
Bravely into morning, carrying cordage and salt,
 
Nor that saddest, sickest animal
In the zoo, carious, mangy, whose hair molts,
Who with its wounds sits in the bare
Hay-padded corner of a cell and licks
At the question of what it means to be here.
 
Yet in winter my love is covered with the brightness
Of snow, in winter my love is filled with eyes.
It waits for me at the block’s edge,
Habitual dog, who walks me back into that gaseous
Entity we call life. Others’ loves may wink and smile
 
Like the moon through a resurrection of vapors,
Like the coy and barbarous moon, who knows no allegiance.
But my love is more like an ice sculpture
In a country of perpetual coldness, which the heat
Of your anger cannot damage, nor the pick
 
Of your words impugn. Now
Lay your worry aside from you, stranger,
Put your hands near these curves: do you feel
That hallowed temperature? Among my people
We call this absolute love.
 

Copyright © 2017 by Monica Ferrell. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 2, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.

Copyright © 2017 by Monica Ferrell. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 2, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.

Monica Ferrell

Monica Ferrell

Monica Ferrell's second collection, You Darling Thing, will be published by Four Way Books in September.

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Man shaped out of mud
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Let's stick in him a little whisperer,

A bucket with two holes.
Let's give him the Great Deceiver,
A blood-stone.

A church with a vaulted ceiling
Where the White and Blue Niles meet.
A dog who cries after dark.

Everyone has a heart,
Even the people who don't.
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I would have liked then for someone to touch me
So I could know the purpose of this hardship.
Black-eyed and impassive as a canyon,
From the hive of my mind, I looked at their faces 
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I only intended for someone to show
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This massive apartment: a whole room left
Empty to air, where we used to sleep.
So many steps on the waxed wood, like off turns
On the dial of a lock whose combination one’s lost—
All decaying about me like empire,
The moldings moldering while I sit frozen
As a swan on the surface of a lake changing to ice.
Fruit
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