Blame Jupiter, its brightest moons.
Blame the scapular ache, a cry
I store in my wing—where my wing
would be. No reason, of course,
for blame but: blame the mask
I buzz. I’ve been at myself,
fingers pruned and smelling
of lemon, of sweet moss,
late twilight and banked ember.
I stoke my own tinder, make fire
of what’s left. Don’t call it dream
but prophecy: an astronomer’s
eye taking time for distance.
Each constellation a bird drawn
by an amateur: seagull. Seagull.
A cry that carries over the water.
Oh, I whisper your name
when I’m close. Look, I say, look.
I become the shortest distance
between two points: seagull,
seagull, horizon. I misspoke,
earlier, said fire instead of fountain,
drought instead of deluge. Once,
I was a mask, made a mess
of your face. Would do it again,
be worn, but for a distance so great
it becomes time. How long before
a gull arrives in the desert, parched,
aching, blown off course? Oh,
it was meant for sea, would settle
for river, as you were meant for me
though we settle for time, for time,
soon its wake, soon collapse. Look,
I say into your mouth, your ear,
not near but soon. I fill the room,
a cloud scudding the moon, fingers
glinting in a light of my own making.
Source: Poetry (June 2023)
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