By Lauren Abney
Lost in translation
Marginalia,
careful meter & spilled ink
drip from my parched tongue;
Crumpled, damp bedsheets
Wrap around the willow roots
To hold its black heart.
Maybe, the sun left
long before we even learned
how to look behind.
There are hands upon
Hands upon hands upon hands
But no one's touching.
Drop a piano.
We breathe unbearable thoughts—
Yet, the wind sighs, love.
