I.
A finger traces a line along the sweaty palm,
and circles back to the lips.
A syllable falls down the neck, along the nerves that carry it down to
the entwined fingers, and shivers, as it reaches the boundary
and tries to jump over the picket fence. A poem breathes
a name that got lost, trying to find a way down the throat.
I try to write.
The only syllables that find a way out of my gut and onto
the periphery of my tongue are the ones lapping up their own wounds,
taming themselves to suit the world, outside of home.
There’s a rusty window that runs along
my bedroom wall. It creaks, every time I move the hinges away
from the lock, trying to open it. Almost like a warning.
I open it nevertheless, and get my eyes burnt from the light.
The hinges creak, and I wonder whether it’s a pleading
or a warning this time.
II.
I try to write a poem, but it gets lost on the page.
After all, words are a great camouflage. Do not attempt to scavenge
for the poem, or it will kill itself and you won’t even notice.
How many poems have died in my mind because I couldn’t stop myself?
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