GFT Press  A Philanthropic Literary And Art Press  

Last night

the sound of unspoken language

felt like a delayed catastrophe.

I wanted abstract things from you

like rootedness

wholeness,

wanted them to come into my body

like a northern magnet

crashing into its south.

The full moon

cast our shadows across the bedroom floor,

illuminating the empty space

while you slept through my tiny psychic death.

I tried to cleave the unspoken 

from the abandon,

drown it in letting go,

summon the complicated mystery

of our intersecting hearts.

I held my flesh together,

let our fate be an unsolved riddle, 

fell asleep with the ominous hollow

that had snuck in from my childhood

beneath my pillow.