Shadows of man all over –
the floors, in the closet
I left open to exorcize him,
yet he’s out there, in your love.
But he’s no ghost, not lost
as this transparent stain
on my clothes. I can’t wash so
I do my hair, I think I’m pretty
enough to turn off the creeping
spirit, but no – he’s taken over.
Within your eyes, he came
divine, like an idol, or a bust –
all roads lead to his offerings.
I wash my skirts again, having
lost, in every manner he is gone.
Where he homes I cannot haunt,
and my girly hands fade my touch.
Category Archives: Hands
Rut
Tonight, I deconstructed love
into a thousand paper cranes.
I don’t even like folding cranes,
like the long wait. Like teleology,
my hands were always destroying
paper; fold my neck to cognize down.
Crane, just to be blinded by flight.
My hands were always sweating,
slipping thoughts of you into vacuum;
all directions evaporate in departure,
and these hands cannot give warmth.
Lune L. 