I liked the idea that I could make it go away
with words, but ultimately, they would find
nothing because I never wrote.
Instead, he finds the cardinal, drop of blood
flitting through the leaves, dancing where
the light moves a hand as it breaks here,
breaks there, casts shadow against ashen bark.
she knows where
the river winds itself around the cliffs,
where the snakes polish their lungs
in bile, where the darkness multiplies
in sleepless schools of fish
On the bottom
holds my face.
And a cloud in the shape of a sister. This womb
emptied of promise. That brief waking moment love
has no synonym.
I scramble for memory of space—
hippocampus dialed in and dialed back—receding,
swallowing whole boroughs,
reducing whole moods to neighborhoods.
Soak figs in wine.
Eat—on a white tablecloth—a debt of salt
(pickles, olives, smoked fish, and capers).
would I write with those letters? What
(portrait on what wall?)