On Buffers

Each one knows herself by her fat, the insulation of the idea
around the thought and the muscle. The joint grinding into
the affect, for the deepest interior is not
bone, it is tone. Pure ringing
bell of
tone. Not
pitch. The skin, too, is made mostly
of fat. And our pinkish, tannish, darkening mortal skin
protects the bell from being recognized
by its ringer. What is the name
for the cord that hangs from
the clapper of the bell so that it
may be rung? We do not know. It is
covered with skin and fat. Our truest trueness is
the protective lack of rigidity that prevents
us from ringing ourselves.

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Copyright © 2011 Elizabeth Robinson All rights reserved
from Black Warrior Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission