Sulfur and Cinnabar

Art by Gianni de Conno

Maybe it will always be

This way:

The cavernous howl of agitation

in the ribs,

The harried pull of magnetism

in the core,

The clashing knuckles—

white with desire,

The disordered breathing—

haunted by time.

How do we do it?

We stare unblinkingly anticipation

steeps beneath our skin

and betray nothing.

We tread the floors of want

to undress or not to undress

without twisting our ankles.

We do not move

our lips are swollen with hunger

to the persistent heartbeat of the walls.

An owl hoots at the periphery of

the moon-washed window.

We leave the light on—

the door open.

How do we do it?

We don’t touch a thing.

We scald.

Distillation, The Fourth

Self-Portrait, Nevine Sultan

Click to read the first, second, and third “Distillation” poems.

* * * * * * * * *

I see you, My Ghost,

after an immeasurable duration of separation.

And though the ‘immeasurable’ is relative,

my first thought is, God, you look so old.

I know this thought should be followed by,

I wonder if you think the same of me.

But, I do not have that thought.

Instead, I think how reverent it is to

age from the lashes and strokes of life.

I think how immaculate are the creases that

cut the edges of our lips and

slice the corners of our eyes.

I think how eloquent are the words

we speak when the spirit wisens,

and surges, like a ghost—

Like you, My Ghost,

surge—

inside of me.