I Am Waiting To Be Built
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Once, I followed the snow, watched as it blinked.
In this language, to ask is to bury. In this language,
eyes are less than mirrors. What is lost in translation: a bird
is a beginning that sings; a horse is an untamed tongue.
Pears are as good as boats are as good as stomachs
in the bearing of rot. How they can only sink.
In this language, the names that follow us are castles
of memory. In this language, I am waiting to be built
& to be seen. Do you remember what was asked?
That is to say, do you remember how we were buried?
How raindrops fell like stones. How they were only stones
until we felt them. How we were only bodies
until we fell.
I am told again & again: there was light once,
in small motions. This is before my mouth
was a bullet, rusting. Before my spine was a road to be
worn. All the ways to begin unwound. Here,
floating in a mother’s stomach: the remains of typhoon
uncut. The sun is only an open wound if you stare
too long. The sky is only a vault if you let it
hold you. Consider if the world was built
on a Sunday. If it is still beginning. If we are still
beginning. Another telling, & I am reminded
that the earth has teeth. That bodies are softness & the
shadows that follow. There was light once,
& nothing to drown in it. Again & again, we are only as bright
as our stars. How quiet, this irreversible reaction,
these small tragedies. How terrible it is to be
the home of so much light.