we marked June

with sympathy flowers

left on a doorstep.

obnoxiously yellow

& innocent, followed by

the usual surrender
it was not language but its inverse

cradled between us
small words of comfort

scattered like breadcrumbs

fed to lost pigeons

before flight. I’m sorry
I never get the words right

the first time. every day

I workshop a list

of what I love most, or

what is within reach

though they are not always

the same.

some things are easy enough.

the scent of

camphor on a winter morning

under the sun; the sun,

a fine silk glove

draped over my hands.

my initial response to touch,

which is to scrutinise.

how loneliness

diffuses my need

to be alone & even this 
is too close. someone

on the internet says

the catharsis of tragedy

is our own suffering

fed back to us, so I replay

old movies in search for a pain

that is familiar. I cut

my hair in the bathroom

with my eyes averted

from the mirror

distracted by the threads

unspooling at my bare feet;

pieces of myself I could discard

or collect. I admit, 
it was embarrassing

to want to live so badly. I was

embarrassed.               —the petals lifted

to the wind       I turned my face away

in silence I had nothing

to say after all, I was the only one

still growing older.