In the stretch of one evening,
I had forgotten how to write a
poem. I drew the sands into the
shape of a memory and found
nothing, except my father’s
silence waiting to bloom by

I tried, listened many times to
the moon’s silk voice, hoping to
hold somewhere along the trail a
small fraction of God’s skin and
form a forest of language from it.

I watched the evening dance into
itself, raising my lover’s hands to the
stars with my feet fondled soft by the
bleaching sea but still, I found nothing,
except the prints of a small heaven

waiting for its death in the palm of an
open wind, asking that I give up the
flames to the sky and watch it burn
instead. And just as day began to grow

from the ash, I caught the breath of
you — twirling into the edge of a fresh
line, asking that I hold you instead










Photo by Enache Georgiana on Unsplash