because love is bursting from
the throat
and tickling the tongue
and rubbing lips together.
irresistible like the exposed
thighs of the poet
to whom time is a concept
she has never grasped
so she can never count her age
in years.
she looks in all directions
breathing in every cockroach running along the
baseboard
and the mole in the crook of your pinky.
the spirits yearn to speak to her
and begin to improvise a language
a rosebush leaning forward
into her path
she tries to understand the petals rubbing her
teeth
and chews them.
presses a palm against the bark
of the tree outside her bedroom window
or brushes dry grass into a pile
and lights a short-lived fire.
the poet looks in all directions
and sometimes sees
nothing except the back of her own head.
she stands, leaning back,
supported by wind,
allowing her skin to goosebump
her nipples to harden
the hair on her head lifts.
she reaches out to listen
with naked toes
to the crying spirits
with their weak voices.
they hope one of these days
the poet will look at nothing
and finally see everything. |