an interrogation, or “how are you doing”

i put my forehead to god’s and tell him:
i want to see the size of your wound,
the place he puts the prayers of all these see-through people
with their splayed-out palms
on the sidewalk. god answers my prayer by putting
my name in the mouth of a ghost, and i
have found the place where
there is no word for remembering a love that
used to be inside of you
breathing inside somebody else. it is too late now
to tell you i got the letter you meant to arrive after my graduation,
when i had already made an oath to leave you where i left you,
in the garden that we planted back when we still held hands.
the birds are my eyes now
and i
see you
a self-portrait of a god on fire, the world
i left
in you
turning

Contributor

Rowan Tate

Rowan Tate is a Romanian creative and curator of beauty. She reads nonfiction nature books, the backs of shampoo bottles, and sometimes minds.