In time, we’ll lose another page’s worth
of what make the missive figs grow
fat as a love word rounding a lip and finite
as the body addressed. No matter
how hard. If your name has lodged
like a sickle beak in a fist-body of fruit,
what do I answer to. I’m awake and a vehicle,
though not readily. I know because
what’s inside me takes off. How light
will my bones get, down in the plot, and
what company will they learn to keep.
Where will you be. Look, how morning’s
strange birds freak and stain like a smashed cup.
It’s a mourner’s reversal, and the dark just
pours up. See what’s left to see in this hollow,
it says, naming itself, nodding, refusing
to sleep. Or release. Or come home.
Lo Kwa Mei-en is the author of Yearling (Alice James Books, 2015), winner of the Kundiman Poetry Prize, and two chapbooks, The Romances (The Lettered Streets Press) and Two Tales (Bloom Books). She lives and works in Cincinnati.