Always, all my life, that thing about time passing. All my whole life long.
—Marguerite Duras
I told myself—
things have been worse and
you’ve been poor before or
this is temporary…
then, a familiar urgency
of sharpened clarity:
absence owns desire.
Neglect wrote this edict.
This half-life was born within
circumstances with no horizon.
A hopelessness earned honestly.
You might read this later
and ask who is to blame or
what failure becomes the real lesson and
demand your worth shouldn’t be so dependent.
This attempt at politeness transmutes your, not my, shame.
As polyphonous form—
I source the weather
as oracle’s explication
and trust the heavens
beneath me to mouth
my needs so eager
to release another witness.
This claustrophobia. A weighed salvation.
I heard a galaxy sing
midway through this journey.
Nothing but implicit openings
conflating the darkness
with beauty.
I know you want
the fantasy of rescue:
at the moment of surrender is happiness.
Cache Culture 