2020 / poetry / AUTHOR
DAVID MOHAN
THE SUITORS
…
The suitor I’m left with—atomic
molecules, love become science,
philosophy, cold rooms in October
where I am permitted
to breath my ghost.
The suitor I’m left with is miasmic,
the bathroom after our shower—
closed text written in smoke—
like letters burning to gold leaf,
autumn; the final signature
of a handprint on glass.
The suitor I’m left with is physics,
cosmic, the morning-after street,
each tree, backcombed turbulence,
the arc of initials
scripted by jet—
love made plain by sonics.