—then, silence

by Kathryn Haemmerle

                              Most mornings we sit
at the balcony table in negative space. It’s summer so the sun turns
us to silhouette. Harsh sunlight obscures
          
more than most people think. If you were to speak I wouldn’t
see your lips move. What is not there is
what is most present.                                      
                                      
                                                            In white like this you once told
                                                            me you would pass summer evenings
                                                            watching winged insects meet
                                                            porch bulbs.

                                                            Your favorite part was the hectic
                                                            rattle of filament—the crazed
                                                            flight to nowhere,
                                                                                          —then silence
                                                          And the persistent burning.                                      
                                      
Now, I hold a mirror to us and my
figure gets lost in the frame.                                      
                                      
                              When I leave you at the table I stand at the kitchen counter
                              grinding coffee

I’m sick of the nothing-sound of matter.

pOrOrOca by Alexandre Damiano Junior
pOrOrOca by Alexandre Damiano Junior