Artwork by Malgorzata Jasinska

tonight's harvest is a mouth
not the white rock nor the mountain
she had in mind, but a bit of color
towards her unborn

her face holds far too much lightning
to even speak of storms.

her ears dream that everything
is soon and that good moonlight
will eclipse the parenthesis
of her memories

she has made her thighs the earth and moves
the fields with cold, broken flesh

her scars, his constellations;
their future.

-

she does not know she could have wrote
her life on sandpaper.

somewhere. (like a hangover with
a memory already born inside it)

when the snow comes she feels ashamed
for a moment.

-

and there in the midnight
between her sorrows and the fields,
something yields,

the ice misses
by a whole translation
and gives her
a son.

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