My mother owned a cauldron so rusted, nothing could live in it. / / Sometimes, I swore, I could feel the sharp tips of the orange crescent moon.
When I lament the bag trapped somewhere / in the bowels of Heathrow’s Terminal 5 / / The agent asks is any of it irreplaceable?
It’s the young French father’s longer arms / that first reach their daughter’s hair / in which her clasp is tangled.
I watch the moon lean against the branches empty / trees wrap its curves to the scent of spring its green / rhetoric
I will hear your words, O Lord, / I will sing and selah with my mouth; / I will teach, I will study, I will serve with my hands, / But in my heart, O Lord, / I will hesitate.
yellow. i don’t know why i need to tell you that / but i do. it was yellow and it was the color / of understanding my mortality.
