(after Bhanu Kapil) I haven't stopped trying to love the one who feels that now they cannot love me back A long night is made of dozens of years, all the earth's clocks tolling Every day I pour water into a glass, take a fork out of a drawer, comb through a forest of thought When there was nothing preordained it was possible to hope Sometimes I look at a milk carton and think of limbs stuffed under a bed I hated children's taunts, perhaps the worst one about being picked out of a dustbin How can one believe not all mothers are the patron saints of suffering My body, like a roll of dough folded over and over, wanting to rise and be sweet There is a roof of stars, a citadel of roses trying to soften their sting I was used to small vials with stoppers, but I've learned where the torrents live in my voice No black, no grey, no white, only jasmine and saffron; I try to gather a usefulness of facts, but only manage to amass pigments in small boxes, a book for every possible train ride They'll say everything has happened before, as if we are merely repeatable; as if there are no hidden marks on our bodies
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.