The Paris Review - Fall 2016

A dark room full of birds
where I slapped the bread
from your hands
and drowned
in a bowl of water.
So much magical thinking
in that swallow
of summer the women
in my dreams
never came with their mouths
open.
Blame my salted brain,
or the fever tree that fingers
the sky with questions.
Listen—
you can hear my heart beat
with the humiliation.
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