Rome falls

 

The perfect storm looks like this:

A body, warm, his. Back to chest,
pull my heart through the ceiling.

                                                                       

Are you accidental—Temporary?
                                                                        Does the moon sink in your skin;
                                                                       are the daffodils talking again?   

 

Somewhere, I put on the face,
you put on the laughter, pretend
we’re more put together, less

 

jigsaw pieces—jammed together
more, gutting up the floorboards
and hiding from each other.                   

                                                          

I touch you, a violence, an undoing.          


                                                           Center of you: a molten mess,                                                                             we are lava cooling, white ash, snow.
 

 

In a thousand years, they’ll dig us up,
a preservation not unlike Pompeii.


Here is the girl, the bed unmade,
a river of hair, 

the fire in the living room
still burning.
It is quieter up here in my head.

                                                        

[This silence]                                                  

 

                                                       As if, something were about to happen, 
                                                       Is happening, happened.


Prelude to War

 

Picking flowers, plucking petals,
love—                          

another lifetime, another century.
Give me green fingers,

everything I touch,
browns, falls—

                                    (anyway)

This is all drone sky—
Marsh of my heart, humid.

What path have you taken,
you lost
lost creature you,

what day are we on now?

& we’re planting limbs
in the garden,
an arm shooting up, here—

Look at all this gangrene,
so sick of all this
new millennia green.

& always the crow-eye
watching me
from the willow tree;

(weeping)—

How you are pulling milk
teeth, spilling blood
into rivers
& playing
with your fingers. No.

No magic.
No pull.

The dead do not rise
because you will it to. 

I lay the dreamer down—
This is no time to be soft.
This is no time to be soft.

 

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S.A. KHANUM  IN CONVERSATION

 

In the past I’ve researched certain myths, certain animals.

READ FULL CONVERSATION HERE