you recall that water goes back to the sea

though I’m a stream forgotten by the clouds

the valleys of me don’t plump

I’m salted, torn meat; I hang on

invisible hooks

the past dissolves in our daughter’s hungry

hole, mine is barely alive

I could fake it—but that was never our story

even now as you pretend to want what’s left

a friend said she gave her pussy to the second child

her clitoris cleaved and jagged

I’m a poet

I claw my way to desire

the poet takes whatever they feel

and heals the world

(before the war the orange tree silenced us with its blossoms)

(before the war we were three: my wife, my son…)

the poet takes whatever is left

and breathes it back alive