The Thought of Writing A Whole Letter To You
The thought of full sentences.
I unfold your t-shirt.
I take it to the forest.
I cross the road
when the cars are
too close.
I can see your body.
In the absence of your body.
The way planets bump up
against bones and wind-
chimes collide
in your body.
Your voice.
With the moss bedding over
your voice.
Your knuckles. Where bees rest
their soft underbellies.
I have questions about smell.
What the fingers hunt, bunching
the cloth close to the face.
What the lungs learn
when I try to swallow
your t-shirt.
Your t-shirt is not a full sentence.
I have questions
about wind
combing leafless branches.
About the carpet of birchwood
and whether sap carries memory.
I look for you in the spaces
between bodies of trees. The quiet
keen on your lack,
your elbows are loud
in the unseeable air.
We never made the plan
for where we'd meet up
the day the oil runs out.
It's not as simple as ghosts or stars
falling from sockets.
The way autumn tilts
itself from yellow to brown.
Copyright Credit: Mónica Gomery, "The Thought of Writing A Whole Letter To You" from Here is the Night and the Night on the Road. Copyright © 2018 by Mónica Gomery. Reprinted by permission of Cooper Dillon Books.
Source: Here is the Night and the Night on the Road (Cooper Dillon Books, 2018)