I am a real person
And everything known to me has a colour.
The sun gravitates around me.
When I am beautiful
In my collected tears grow forests.
The soldier like the poet is made of milk.
On the wooden plank, he awaits the start of the fight
Amongst all the other lifeless objects
In this room
His bones wave at me.
The soldier’s need to speak precedes the need to listen.
The poet’s need to sleep precedes the need to rest.
The poet like the soldier does not wave back.
Once gone, forever hidden
Behind a thick screen of smoke
Which now separates our worlds.
Unable to find the way back
He collects the very dry tear on tissue paper
And builds a beautiful house
For the silence which follows the final departure.
She had no weight because
Was made of eyes.
She was talking to me
In an invented language
She tripped over a pebble and
Fell into the sea.
(There was no splash)
In a second
She vanished beneath the wave
With all our wooden hearts.
She could not be saved
Because nobody knew
How to breathe in ink.
You take the unspoken word and
Look at it under the magnifying glass
In the dark
You live out all the unnecessary sorrow and beauty
And get to the bone of the language
With very small steps
Learning to walk in poems
And in learning so
The need to talk grows in the broken wood.
I was deeply asleep
In my father’s egg
My sharp knife on my chest
My fingers on the shiny blade
My good teeth followed my legs when
I was finally released in this world
The unborn died to let me breathe
And this is how
I survived the big storm
With white blood on my hands.