Not Over It Poem by Heather McHugh

In sympathy with Gaspara Stampa

By woman so touched, so pressed,
detachment being thought
achievable at all

is boggling in itself. Its being
thought achievable by love—but love
for only all (not someone’s single) sentience—

appears the precept of too cold
a form of flame. How much
of a hand in things

relinquishes the hold
of things-at-hand?
What kiss might such

a mind reclaim? A swirl of dust
in Buddhist schools, perhaps.
A view of several solar

systems from above.
Not love.
The thought

appeals as it appals:
Slow learners, we must spurn
the selving sensualities, to feel

for feelers of this kind,
unfasten passion’s burner
to identify what’s under it—

in short, must court
dispassion just
to be compassionate.