The dead branch inscribes wild
to-do lists on the wind. How many moons
since we first woke up, lip against lip
knowing our kitchen sink
of years has dripped away: papers, continents,
coffee stains, the drawers jammed open
in astonishment? You put your mouth to me
when I sliced my hand to keep me from losing
even a drop of our life. As for the rest:
blackbird shouting in the black walnut tree,
afternoon sun cutting the ground into roses,
night banging on and on at the gate.
For a few years now how we’ve tried to accept
we won’t ever be back to this particular quarrel
of sheets, to this exact plastic milk-jug morning,
opening our eyes together, again, yes
once more, again, how ferocious that shock
of light carving its own vows on each other’s skin.
Copyright © 2025 by Kirun Kapur. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 31, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
