Hey! that's my boy in jeans / by river by the / lake the water / the fishes the / special gas station
There are no more blonde women with red lipstick left to walk slick cobblestones alone. The run in her stocking says that the wars have ended. An old man wipes a soiled handkerchief across his brow, smiles at nothing.
This dream is a teenaged revision of terrestrial bodies / that do not harm. Our eyelids like foldaway flowers. My heart like a gosling I follow / expecting your mouth pulling north.
Still, tomorrow the mud / will evaporate dust back into the sky & the moon / will be a pill & catch on the throat of the horizon, / & this helps no one.
The people that loved me / made me lentils and rice, sat with me / in the quiet that held space like a / coat around me.
& I will soon fly to meet you in a city where the seasons are made lazy by latitude, meaning we will not yet know each other’s bodies in winter.
the truth is/ my mother still tongues your name at night/ but no language can translate you back to life.