The World Is Too Full to Talk About

increasingly I am beginning to understand your outlines
I have a better image of your childhood.
I know moments in the summers of your youth
sleeping in your grandfather’s house in the west.
The red sea is large and smiling. Smiling at you!
A full life! a secret song in the afternoon when everyone is having
lunch
and the sun comes in so large through the window as if it shines only
for you
when you were fifteen it was clear that God loved you
that same year a few cities away I was the same age
my skin was different, it looked different and smelled different and I
understood
things pass by, glide by painfully and fast and before you could stand
up to speak it has already died
Though I barely saw the sun and never saw the sea, I lived too inside
my sisters room, and wanted so desperately to enter my mother’s chest
and wear her skin
so when I looked at her so perplexed, it would not be such
(4)
poetry is not a quest for the truth its an attempt
like all art
to embody and capture tyrannical, inevitable suffering.
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