Trish Salah
POEMS
 

h_ hesitates


sometimes it feels as if time hazards, double dares you:
take this means to effect—looking all the while as if joking
so easy it should come—her representation as the holy.

it is as if time says, take this knife
this night as promissory.

i wanted a warrior less like a boy made of will, a girl
from the apparatus, which in turn i gave no thought to…

the era to which, destitute, so out in the open, gutless,
we now belong.

unswerving, erring, not to ask, scientifically, is this too much?
were an ocean’s breast to wash upon us, could we handle the
frantic pause, the real of distance? 
 
cheating, these conferences multiply violent discourses
taking measure, you’re holding out.
 
your concentration and constant testing are in me, breeding.
a bride gathers the earth, slips in the stream, white
shoes up, as if to say
 
in all seriousness, this is seduction, the viewpoint
of particle physics. (no news flash, from Iraq)
 
incapable of encountering anything unusual, anyone at all
four billion default to one, hungry for the nursemaid,
pulling at my silicone/saline muscle/blood breast.
 
this pair traverses factual things. lousy poets abridge
the french and german inheritance. in her variety of versions
and presents leftover
 
the revolution disposes of modern science, holding (you) dear.
 
when the gift strays in quarters better avoided—
classism of the flaneur.

and am i merely using the dictionary, dealing with gathering,
as if just to say
 
i have no other words to translate, for what history requires
now. is it so different from blood, imagining?



   
   
   

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