Poem III
How about we call death a certain moon?
How about we call the moon an apple?
Will it make the emptiness glowing and sweeter and redder?
No one knows why a body opens.
No one knows why a river opens.
A man came, sat beside me on the bed
and ate my hands
which I didn't even know were there.
My soul was green
but my hunger was ripe.
My cup was overflowing.
My cup was empty.
Rain fell like a leaf curling into itself.
The light: too cold to carry the sweetness of giving up.
My hands: too frail, too awkward to carry it all.
Witnessing beauty is like a knot opening.
My name: a red apple in the mouth of dark hour.
The tea: indulged in its own darkening in the saucepan.
The curtains: sharpening the darkness of moths and cricketsong.
Moon: multiplying the silence
into owls and hymns sung in a dead language.
Inside me there are colors without shapes
and shapes without any color.
The hour of sleep has come
but when was I ever waking?
.
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Posted Oct 22, 2022, 7:55 AM UTC · edited