December
Or that I would run my hand along
the dip in the hill's grey back
up to its withers, feeling
the closeness of its heat,
its inwardness risen and rises and blown away
To be among their small group,
their mouths to the earth, their silences
Uncle is, swishing away the flies
Mother is, pouring black coffee through their hair
Each of us, briefly, a tense
cast into the other's time
Not to fill my ears with the sound of my own motion
but with ear
To hear the low voices of the shadows
To exist without the memory of words
To be traversed by elk, faces, wheels
To learn to stand outside the rooms of light
____________________________
Aracelis Girmay
Green of all Heads
BOA Editions, 2025
