Saturday, March 23, 2013

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.

Friday, March 1, 2013

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,
inside of me.