wolf dream moon
It was another day when you couldn’t pay attention. Eradication having been a failure to self examine. And if they pasteurize this city I will still make a gutter in the nest with you. Anyone being human even chickens even terrorists. Even chicken terrorists. This compression of the upper layers into the lower. So that even those who make air cannot find a way through the cave to the sea. In this time of indeterminacy when cracks thirst for light the thin reedy line that peters in and out has the least chance of detection. And you were a balloon I kept tethered to me through lack of touch. On his fingers there was a powder. Hoses washed the blood from the streets. I had to wonder why they wrapped the body so carefully when they took off his face. I kept trying to bring peace to minerals: marble and salt. Sea water kept washing up through this loose opening. I spelled out lust in butter and sugar. First the toes blacken and then the fingers of the hand. I was looking for a way to remember. I started poking holes in milk cartons. Have you seen this person. Kept thinking anything with another side might be where we’re going. But there you sat four feet away from me and impossible. And I swam in the water beside you everyday. And we crossed a field of flowers and did not know the names of any of them. And the skies were the usual anonymous grey of the end of the moment in which seeing generated a you and an I. And without you there was no I. And we were a kind of evaporation on the water. What could constitute a life but kindness. Light and shadows through the spokes of a bicycle wheel. Depending on where the tide falls you can see the rock or not. Perhaps we are made of these rips and the utterances of wind when it passes through the places that have come apart. Perhaps coming apart is a witness. Something half felt or remembered from a dream. And recognition only what we do to comfort ourselves. And invent place, home, love, country, cereal… anything that can occupy a very empty space. Lines on a blank white page that delineate a box. A box that delineates a scene. And our endless human conjectures pushing the algorithms forward. So that we are the product of mutual configuration. And we have oozed repatriation from our estrangement. And we have cooled into green glass on the windowsill. And we have been found on the beach catching light.
Gaia Thomas is a poet living in the San Francisco Bay Area. She holds an MFA from Mills College and is a 2019 Zoeglossia Fellow. Her work appears in the disability poetics collection We Are Not Your Metaphor from Squares & Rebels Press. Her manuscript, Serotine, was a finalist for the Carolyn Bush Award.