

A collection of poems, on the inside.
spoon
Tie me to the clock hand
I am the Witch of Stolen Moments but I am weak I do not steal by force but by good sense, and accidents. I squeeze myself into minutes on which minutes made–– the extra hour that happened when the sky forgot it was to keep falling into itself and I slipped under no one’s watchful eye to be under yours only long enough for them to open, still groggy, still dim, not-yet-enough to say yes, okay, that sight might make-believe it were dream. No witness except your one shut eye, and my sleepless, measured breathing, never louder than the loudest confession a mute throat can make.
 
Dear,
the sun’s timorous glance exposed You to me, in your ankle, the faintest line of the hourglass, thinned to a grain of sand while time runs above and below. You are so young there like a newborn eye before lids come unstuck, milky white makes it a miracle in itself, those gritty pilgrimages you made in and out of Yourself. In another life I would have knelt down to kiss your feet.
 
Lovely hands
Large hands Heavy hands between which fingers like monuments pinched eyelashes, plucked soundlessly (hook and pull, twist) wove them through the eye of a needle with a moment’s loose wrist.
 
(to nobody) my wish
In a blind, hollow cave I recite, shout: please be kind to me, tell me you allow me everything, and forgive me too.
 
Silt
I could feel, in my chest, fingernails hollowing out the riverbed, dredging up silt. Letting the silt float to the surface, an oily skin. I gathered up this oil, to light a very dim, flickering flame there. We were two pairs of red rimmed eyes, unwavering.
(black) sesame seed
Like a sesame seed, wretched, wedged in the creases of my brain–– I’d sink a toothpick in if I could.
Everyone, ever The voice behind Tomas says, life is a sketch for nothing. I’ll stand at the end of mine, turn my head and recall: There was no one, ever, knows any better. Zoom out further still, and the universe looks on kindly, at we, who never knew any better, struggling so seriously Picking things up putting things down heavy–– so heavy! Irises wide stare straight ahead we’re shouting! Shouting our convictions to the glass-clear air next to each other; the air around us is so still. It’s a director’s cut, no soundtrack, only the crunch crunch crunch of the universe enjoying some popcorn.


I-witness
Under eyes, I walk, feel the placement of one foot before the other on a trope. My chapped lips moulds thin a voice like mine that says a vague thing–– almost-but-not-quite a memory. : Light (as in without weight). My arms rest at the wrong bend, somewhere between my wrist and my elbow. Under blind skies, are as many words as there are stones, and skin, flesh, bones, warmed, are homely yet firm. If only I could stay here.
Love was born of one gesture–– you drew a line in the air between our two chests and said “ it was attached to you, but it sprung in me. The gesture that gave birth to love floated out of time and stayed there, like an icon–– like the shape of an odd function rotating slowly in an abstract plane–– like a small planet orbiting itself in space.
Windburned every bone brittle, varnished in calamine lotion and draped gingerly in gauze. breathing is like swallowing. needles poised, lined up under my fingernail. our ears are sealed with spirit-drenched cotton; when warmth slammed itself against our locked door, we didn’t hear it. The expression you wore, I’d never seen it on you. for once steady, in straight lines save the brow, gave away your eye’s echo. Strike a match against my cheek, hear it flare. Lips graze lungs, draw one corner aside, like carving melting stone.
the heartbreak of an old persimmon tree Say the word, a sharp and crunchy mouthful of shards rolling around behind my lips. Hold it between my teeth. I don’t see my hands or my feet, but I see you in front of me. How old was this persimmon tree? How long had it stood? Had you grown up with it? Was it an old friend? We were playing, were you standing or kneeling? He or she or they were gentle when they told you. Your shout and your tears were fast, guttural; as to a blow struck to your belly, you crumpled. (What are old persimmon trees like? Gnarly and strong and so tall, curled arms reaching for the sky. I remember each year before that, the soft fruit that would fall and make splashes on our concrete. So many fleshy, gently rotting mounds that would turn the air sweet. Overripe persimmons have a lovely burnt-amber skin, split open to spill sticky, stringy insides that resemble honey-matted hair.) Crumpled, you hold your face in one hand. You sit so still as your chest swells, shoulders heave and breath grates your throat, eyes knotted, cheeks warm and wet. The room is dark with dust. Are you mourning the tree? A stolen life your friend your childhood your father? Are you still mourning? Maybe I can’t call this mine. Maybe what I called mine was really yours, so immense that I was incidentally caught in it’s fallout, as collateral. How did I know then–– to bury the invincible, come hurt, who takes in all with open arms? The premature birth of my secular life.