Who could claim a lover is more important than peace, in a world where the trees are apathetic to us and our tears. Everything is relative. Someone loses a child, we lose our kisses. No one determines the appropriate amount of mourning. This morning is full of contradictions, assuaged only by the power of communing with words. And possibly you, anonymous reader.
the sun has been feeding the leaves
so life could insinuate itself into
a variety of folds
ubiquitous, and cruel.
Maybe a flower will blossom in the absence of wind
the grass is hot and in here,
pulse hides in the eyes of this statue
the way words between us are frozen.
In Africa, a child pleads flies away from his lips, hot too, and thinks of a
I have seen the yellow faces of famine in Pakistan, a
white trembling of stagnation descended
from the sun and its ocean. A small hand inches across the soil,
inert, their bodies strewn are river paths of hurt that the wind
whistles to me, as useless as the
Middle East peace process,
Jerusalem and our flesh lost in the tumult of money speaking to your unfair god.
In here, my restless toes want to wrap our morning
in sheets private, and warm. The ageless sun blinks
white lights into maps forgotten and wayward,
illuminates a path to your arms, overgrown in nettles
Elsewhere in my mind,
a suicide bomber takes the path of least resistance,
rendering poetry useless to safeguard this love.
Limbs shatter across concrete, telling us we have arrived too late.
A man shifts feet in the slow prayer of a Friday afternoon, his heart
pumps faith through a waist that kneels in hope
for requests to a higher entity that could hold us. His form is the prostration
of desire through servitude to the power he imagines
he can wield over death.
I die a little every morning, where even the chocolate of your skin
and all that they baked is tasteless.
A woman bends over the drying lake, scooping hope this taste of liquid
wont make her offspring sick,
but this salt water in my throat, seeping across a face that flies
a horizon of highways to your bed, is parching.
An old lady picks a rose from her bush in the abundant garden of
apathy, wondering why her husband seemed to ache
in his sleep last night, a world of mystery to
her aged hands, now appeasing thorns to find a petal to soothe him.
I have no blossoms inside.
The earth still spins in defiance to my rigid hips.
The moon will come out again tonight to tease me.
The fajr love moans of shoulders entwined will keep the sun in time,
another day mourns this night of indifference
you bequeathed me.
A young woman in labor, racked, holds a bundle of possibilities to
swollen breasts, in hospitals where others have
seen their mothers chopped and stifled. Everything is relative, I think.
But not the frozen words between us,
for they too,
have physics of symmetry and rotation necessary to survive motion, apart.
I am still.
My lungs lose their battle with nicotine, breathe the way my waist
could turn in angular circles to mesmerize
you. You win.
The leaves outside are now making love to the breeze, in playful energy that mocked
my lethargy, and this void.
in the space of my fingers to this voice, swallowing
dryness, a moist memory of you
is vapor rising, and
I awoke this morning longing for what you dreamt.