Poem Beginning with a Wrong Line
The second return is always easier. This time I paint my mouth cranberry, draw my eyes dark and long as a river. I tear through the tunnels until I realize I’ve passed myself. My face already lost to the other side of the city, spilling into the glowing sleeve of night. Where it did not belong. What could’ve been true, like your last lover, almost gold. During the new moon, when I miss my mother. When it’s more difficult to stay and I don’t find what I’m looking for. But people say the wrong things at all the wrong places. No one knows where to put their hands or their keys. I work all week and cry twice a year, but as the train crosses the quiet forest heart of water, I know I can accept my life and more. Because it’s never too soon to leave a party. It’s never too late to kiss me goodbye. And the marshes blazing like an angel. Praise the smoke of low light.