The time that has passed between languages,
the correlation to lovers.

I've burned entire alphabets.

Al Iskandariyah

He bled my chest dry;
every drop a mile--6 thousand--
pooling at my feet,
running into tributaries of denile.
I crackle like drip dry creek beds;
these wasted intricacies.

Maybe I search through old photographs to see where everyone was looking. I found one of my mother in her (vegetable) garden, shielding her eyes from the sun, soil smudged on her brow. She left before the plants came to bear.

Her senior portrait inscribed to my dad:

Remember. Remember. Remember.

Don't forget me.

I can't remember what I wanted to say.

Censorship?

No, this is all wrong.

His chest panels open/close. I withhold his breath, his voice dangling over my throat, teasing sound.

I pluck my chords--out of tune, my voice cracks, fails.

My restlessness chases the warmth.

I tie my tongue into knots--the wrong words. On the couch, I curl into myself, her knitting needles click to heartbeat time; she tells me it's just my nerves. We blamed the thaw and all of its agitated inconstancies--fickle breeze tangled in my hair. The difference between the air and my skin. I tapped my finger in rhythm with her needles.