Poem by Elisa Karbin. Photo by Michaela Gabriel.

Your mouth is an empty bowl, tipped up
towards high heaven, towards another mouth
brimful of whispers you cannot hear
from where you are.  In the morning
you will wake with closed eyes and you
will not know your own hunger, only
the pangs of something like memory, forgotten
by noontime like last night's yellow moon,
like the name of your mother, and mine.
This morning you will waif upon the bed
and linger through space in a shadowed state—
an armature of your reflection, a compromise
between flesh and bones, inertia and movement.
You will call for someone, and I will come, maybe,
to wheel you out the veranda.  But I will close my eyes
when speaking.  I will not listen for a reply.  We will sit
for some time.  There will be sunlight through your hair,
pooled in the hollow bow of your lip, and in mine.
There will again be other things golden, you will say
to me, in a voice younger than your own.  You will
say this to me in a whisper, eyes still shut, head tilted
still to high heaven, to another mouth.  Not mine.

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