Black is the Color—
Like trying to begin without a past.
Like the dream of universal grammar.
As if months gauged memory's grip.
Like calling it a star, a fever, the fire, the scar.
Like gratitude for the blade.
As if you could repack the galaxy.
Like a song gutted by the tongue's score.
Like keeping my hands to myself.
As if a poem could sing.
Like the certainty you've exhausted the last of your words.
Like everything a poem struggles not to say.
Meta
Date created | 01 Jan 2014 |
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Date modified | 05 Jan 2018 |
Manuscript | The Great Permission |
Journal | Potomac Review (Jun 2015) |