Call me a scientist,
a collection of experiments
and crooked questions
like where is the why in Time
and who wrote my fate
in the shape of a lotus seed
which after so many centuries
rooted in hospitals and EKGs
stopped searching for the betrayal
in curiosity
and simply bloomed
like the virgin sun,
breaking the world
back to white.
When I hatched, I did it between
the tear-dampened pages
of my grandmother’s dictionary.
I thought if I followed the language
I would find a body;
something to prove that she was there.
But there are so many words
and so many voices and I don’t remember
which she loved more:
the language or
the people who spoke it.
So many words,
so many ways to distract oneself
from the loneliness that comes
with being an earthworm’s dream,
foam flowers and biblioklepts,
magpies and monasteries,
flatlines and faultlines finding faults
in our facades—questions.
limits.
The difference between carbon
monoxide and a tired garage;
that is both a question and a solution.
Closure, closing, closeness.
intimacy is what I’m afraid of,
Questions.
That virgin word, that definition of a curve—
Calculus.
Sepsis and a DNR.
Eyes that don’t remember how to shut.
If I love you enough,
won’t you pretend you’re listening?