there’s a word in another language that means
the maternal sorrow reflected in the moon’s image
on dark water: mangata. i sift through stacks &
stacks of newspaper clippings to find your name
but the heavens are often callous with our hearts,
stumbling mindlessly & throbbing beatlessly.
i wonder if our reflections are ever really ours,
ever really the same when spinning or flipping
upside down rightside leftside, somersaulting across a
shiny river, crawling along the sides of moving cars.
they are a life of their own—ripples in the lake make
me think of time, ripples in blue fabric stretching
us open & stuffing us with loneliness until we are
the teddy bears in our bedrooms, the discarded
reminders of a stop drop childhood. & this is where
it all begins and ends: torn edges of your reflection
blur, toeing the ripples and gently rolling into mine.
Law of Fluidity
this is how time moves:
pill bottles rolling up wooden tables,
rain running down thin glass like
it’s chasing itself.
oranges on windowsills
casting shadows long & rounded,
breathing colors dark & sleepy like Death—
something sad / something fading.
look at the sun & see how it dips
below your line of sight,
withdrawing into itself like a
a whore caught dead in the middle
of a thunderstorm, rain going
pum pum pum.
nothing sadder / nothing more liberating