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Dalia |
I jolt awake from and exhale what you smelled, what stung you.
Cleanly engraved on a tombstone,
where your path dead-ends, engulfed in weeds,
with all the contours and pockmarks
embedded and expended like your liquid weeks,
suspended like an easel, draped in abeyance
and in shadow. You tried to be so
much more than an image,
but precariously intermediate, you are naked,
a building sitting on the cusp of the horizon.
Yet I caught you and held you and grasped you,
devoured your essence and stuffed into categories the heterogeneity
you faced. I have cupped your days in my palms,
I have made currency of your trauma.
I have understood the terror of the grace
that comes frozen, standardized in the imputed version of you.
Labels: Dalia
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