Retrieved from the Mustard Fields
AVA C. CIPRI
I. It has been told to me
I will forget, am forgetting— nape of neck with red curls, scent of ginger.
Phantoms tired now, push onward.
Logic: recognize me—
I’ve come from nothing that defines you, us. Not this position where you have come to construct your hand-built errors
where even what is real like an organ can be made pretty: encasing dozens of false hopes, I mean [red] hearts . . . it’s all the same.
This need for a heart to be made lovely is a symptom.
II. I remember it now; it happened on a Saturday marking
November’s edge arriving in traces, utterances dinning from the sky’s rim.
Those voice-filled fields where dreams tear from the waking— unhook the black inseam of night. III. You will tire of the reasons why you detest others, & the soul will walk draped in
its form and ache to be called upon.
It is [I], her, him never leaving a name.