C.C. Apap
the manuscript is all endings,
and so I make of each a start
but then it is all beginnings
trailing off wildly
in white.
what I remember most was how she pursed
her lips, and all expression fell. in her eyes—
a leaf floating away down a long, thin stream.
she held it for three long beats, and every line
in her face spoke of what she had emptied
to be there. the life that could have been,
if dreams weren’t drowned in a well behind
the old farm house, setting her finally free.
flames
love irony most. its taste
dry and lonely, like the sky
in early november, a cloud
of smoke that will not leave
your hair
—so you cut it off.
an old bar of soap cracks open.
her feet—rough, blackened by
time and use, dry from neglect.
start by soaking, but eventually
everything ends up held gingerly
fingers and palms work, scraping
the desert away. time is briefly
undone. it slips smooth between
two hands, shiny, pale, new again
all anticipation before it is soiled.