Plant the nettle
Among soft moss.
Drink deep and swim
In his black sheets,
Nights of soft cooing
And strange electric buzzing
From the other room.
Whose house is this,
What nest, what trees,
What halfway uprooted windows?
Flame the candle
To light the dark and steam,
A spell to traverse our secret buildings
Constellations jumped on bodies
Bodies cause friction to each other.
Give me. Magic to know the origins of moles on his skin, the tragedy marks white and brutal I touched gingerly that first night.
It was only an accident, he said. You see.
I want to force your distinct, distant body against mine
but you are like a castle of salt, a far-away wave exhausted with terror,
a rabbit in night’s thorny terrain.
Can I forgive your animal trespasses and become a fish,
or unbroken beam tethered to the vulnerable dusk–
a wet and upright tree–when you coat me with your
poison sap and my sleep is chased into my throat by wolves?
Who is this man rumbling next to me in the dark nest
of a dream and where does he makes his nest of hair and bones,
of the hollow twigs of my desire tossed about by the wind?
Sometimes I do not believe in love,
do not believe in the tenderness brought by the day,
but only in the hard animal-like pain of connection and rupture,
beasts that swim in the sea, the lotus-eaters of lore.
I want to forget the extension of my wound
in your body and in the constellation of your hair.
I hold this wound like an oyster–
delicately away from you and the light on my frameless bed.
and now I am drinking a bottle of wine
and recalling the harbor and fort of my aloneness,
strength in dizziness, the bluish desire to wander the day tomorrow.
Anna Mirzayan is a graduate student in the Midwest. She makes spaces for words and wonders if philosophy is a dying field. Her work has been published in Polaris, Menacing Hedge, and Former Poetry Journal.