After
Ruth Awad
What the living know: desire is a small lead
threading the body between this world and dark,
and want rises like a new moon,
presses its hand against the body’s glass—
only thumbprints.
Imagine looking down on earth, seeing marionette strings
that once kept it a oat in the black current.
Think of every moment breath swept through you,
unremarkable. Your heart squeezing a handful of red petals.
Bite a memory between your teeth before it’s gone.
The boy who pulled a ribbon from your hair
and wrapped it tight until his finger purpled.
Or did he? You want it back, you say.
Your life or someone else’s.
71