And so I came home a woman starving
to say my hunger is so old
so fundamental, that all the lost
crumbled burnt smashed shattered defaced
overpainted concealed and falsely named
faces of every past we have searched together
in all the ages
could rise reassemble re-collect re-member
themselves as I recollected myself in that presence
as every night close to your body
in the pain of the city, turning
I am remembered by you, remember you
even as we are dismembered
on the cinema screens, the white expensive walls
of collectors, the newsrags blowing the streets
-and it would not be enough.
This is the war of images.
We are thorn-leaf guarding the purple-tongued flower
each to each.
-Adrienne Rich, from “The Images”