I.
The problem is the wind: how it easily transports
from monsoons to monsoons, growling the heartaches
that smudged the letters all too easily. This is merely a reply.
II.
A flock of hummingbird escapes
the night I learned
how to sharpen a quill the way
I sharpen a scalpel. How it became sharp enough
to carve a meat. How it became good enough
for dissection.
This is the trouble with too much
skin. My skin had kissed yours so much
that it memorized how you twitch
each time we touch.
III.
This is merely a reply to reply.
Or how it should be.
Because a mound of papers filled with
poems describing how my heart yearns
to hear your voice is good enough
for silence to take over, for you
to sew your mouth and hold
your breath. This is good
enough.
IV.
I want to hear your voice,
an old song that makes my lips quiver
and sing the way you do.
V.
But you became a stifled mortuary
the way the winds came tonight.
And I’m sure, you were
Struck.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
I.
The problem is the wind: how it easily transports
from monsoons to monsoons, growling the heartaches
that smudged the letters all too easily. This is merely a reply.
II.
A flock of hummingbird escapes
the night I learned
how to sharpen a quill the way
I sharpen a scalpel. How it became sharp enough
to carve a meat. How it became good enough
for dissection.
This is the trouble with too much
skin. My skin had kissed yours so much
that it memorized how you twitch
each time we touch.
III.
This is merely a reply to reply.
Or how it should be.
Because a mound of papers filled with
poems describing how my heart yearns
to hear your voice is good enough
for silence to take over, for you
to sew your mouth and hold
your breath. This is good
enough.
IV.
I want to hear your voice,
an old song that makes my lips quiver
and sing the way you do.
V.
But you became a stifled mortuary
the way the winds came tonight.
And I’m sure, you were
Struck.
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