Sunlight is
only collecting
emptiness.
How it spills
over cobblestones—
singeing, post-card
stamping them.
How it snakes
into my room—
nesting its eggs
on my unread book.
Every word it scoops
falls apart,
like rocks
into sea-beds.
Language
down my
memory.
down my
memory.
Almost anything
I am given
slips from
my hands:
mogras,
necklace beads,
grief.
Once in the sixth grade—
my science teacher quizzed me
on the Theory of Evolution.
my science teacher quizzed me
on the Theory of Evolution.
Coughing one or two words—
I fell silent as the ruler
stripping my palms,
its heat lacerating
my body.
Like sunlight—
God grant me the strength
to keep falling
until I am everywhere,
everywhere.
