I love the shape of our apartment
as I walk through it in near-total darkness.
I love walking slowly through that darkness
with my arms out, trying not to bump
into furniture. How many apartments
have I done this in now? I loved
them all. Or possibly I just loved
how they held darkness, slivers of streetlight
sneaking into the fortress, amplified and lent
personality by the darkness surrounding them.
Wherever you are is a country. Touch it softly
to make it stand still. Your hair getting caught
in my mouth all the time, like a tiny piece
of you calling—like a tree trying to speak
to a rock by dropping a pinecone on it.
It is my intention to listen, but my hands
keep giggling while reminding me
I don’t get to be a human being
for very long, as if this were the punchline to a joke
whose first half I missed. I arrived too late.
I typically arrive about three years too late.
I wish I had been able to sit in that white,
aromatic kitchen and look you in the face
but I was not ready. I was still on my way.
I was lingering inside the perspective
of the spider I noticed crawling
along the baseboard. You fried
an egg. Is it possible to change
who we basically are? Thank you
for serving me cups of lemon tea
with honey in it. Even though
such copious amounts of liquid
would no doubt drown the insect
I imagined myself to be, that was kind
of you.

“Fly Flying into a Mirror” was first published in Nashville Review and “Wind-Related Ripple in the Wheatfield” in Sixth Finch