Last night I burped into an iPhone and in Chinese it translated to “why didn’t you kill him.”
Today on our walk you turned your ankle.
And that was no small thing, the pain you felt,
clouds across the sun, a shadow to foretell
storms of pain to come. Oh, the acute angles
our bodies make in love, elbow and knee,
rib and hip, shoulder blade and collarbone.
How can I forgive that numb, random stone,
the years, (if we survive), those aches we’ll feel?
If this were the last rhyme I ever write,
what should my hands choose to fabricate?
They’d spin straw into gold to bribe the fates,
stitch a bright charm against the sprain of night,
and weave one last tapestry of our tears,
so we can ache another ten thousand years.
The hardest thing to do when you go back underwater, is talk about what the sky was like.
Poetry has nothing
to do with taste.
Poetry is purely
flesh, nerves and pain.
- || Maza-Dohta
Backstage at Valentino Spring 2012
Painting: Claude Monet, The Sheltered Path, 1873