things I do in the name of you

     Esther Ra

​

I swallow clocks without chewing.

I laugh at mirrors, broken-tongued and harmless

compared to the I in your eyes. I pull rubies

out of my mouth and pile them under

my pillow: useless, preposterous treasures.

Wine rippling under my skin. Goosebumps

in the place of ghostflesh. I am

frenzied and peaceful, hungry

and rich. I smile so hard people think

I have opened a vein of gold. You dazzle

until I have to look away: I the scrambling,

six-legged ant, you the glass magnifying

the sun. I can’t hide in metaphors

anymore. I can’t pretend I’m not

aching for you.

I am pressing myself

into paper, to stop hurling

my yearning at you. Sifted sand of you.

Murmur of you. Touch of you. I am writing

my way through a blizzard of words

to survive the soft sunflare of you.