By Jess Rizkallah
the past is a jinn / sitting on your chest
dreams aren’t warnings they are forecasts
the weather will always get inside your body
where the convergence of meaning strikes
so learn to swim / the other woman is you
with different teeth / always a rose on the table
for blessings / and two for love / which is a container
for a shared vocabulary of symbols
stand in front of your mirror / what tarot card
are you today / consider your posture / are you held up
by a stem / a wick / a sword in stone waiting
for the hand of god / ya god / ya allah / god
and allah are the same articulations of wind
realized at different registers / you don’t have to
be praying all the time / often, you are heard
the first time / a gift to be read / you were always
a watcher but its never too late to be a doer
to plunge a trowel into dirt and tuck a seed
behind the unknown’s ear / the sun is a sound
the heart is a radio / when you dream of your love singing
and a thermometer when you begin
to forget the shape of their ears
an owl is just the sky whistling
thru its nose while sleeping
when the color blue rests its eyes
and it’s just night / not sadness
there’s a million reasons a horse loses
none of them have to do with crystals
and moonbeams but partly to do with blood
the tools are important but ultimately do you know
how to be your own light
dappled through milkweed
butterflies and moths are two sides
of the same shaft of light / their shadows
on the wall a projection
two sides of the same hope
you are protected
can anybody see the future? what’s over there
why is there always a president
why is everyone a cop
or a test
if you drop a question mark
you’re supposed to flip it
heads up for the next person
the bulb from which a penny grows
dead ends are doors with no handles
even in hell you keep digging
fate is just pheromones
that’s a cool sentence, but do I believe it
that’s a nice question
but can it carry my weight
when a sickness doesn’t kill you but still takes pounds of flesh
there is a separate heaven for your melted parts
in the clouds spread above us
our bodies are part of the water cycle
water has memory
our bodies repeat like calendars
the clouds are archives
fact-check me, baby / then strike the record
the world’s a needle / like my finger
when i traced the lines in his palm / and then
a blackbird flew out of his mouth / in the dead
of night, a song / graceful, mine. that’s just one example
i don’t have another