Radial Scent

Sharon Wang
My body tauter, poised to carry.
When I pitch forward
I tumble inside.
 
Each time I try,
an algal bloom
replaces language’s surface.
 
Ruby-red & unmoored,
waves over laminate surfaces…
Everything alive aching
for more aliveness.
 
I love the world,
push it away reflexively.
Make songs like
negated charges on a circuit.
Syntax arches towards
the back of
a neck. Inside emotion:
a corralling of emotion.
 
Love in the larval stage:
terror of surrender.
Unraveling, a path.
 
Words were not made for us.
They are above, we submit.
 
We are like the rock beneath
the water,
 
even if we created the water. 

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Letter to the Northern Lights

The light here on earth keeps us plenty busy: a fire
in central Pennsylvania still burns bright since 1962.

Whole squads of tiny squid blaze up the coast of Japan
before sunrise. Of course you didn’t show when we went

searching for you, but we found other lights: firefly,
strawberry moon, a tiny catch of it in each other’s teeth.

Someone who saw you said they laid down
in the middle of the road and took you all in,

and I’m guessing you’re used to that—people falling
over themselves to catch a glimpse of you

and your weird mint-glow shushing itself over the lake.
Aurora, I’d rather stay indoors with him—even if it meant

a rickety hotel and its wood paneling, golf carpeting
in the bathrooms, and grainy soapcakes. Instead

of waiting until just the right hour of the shortest
blue-night of the year when you finally felt moved

enough to collide your gas particles with sun particles—
I’d rather share sunrise with him and loon call

over the lake with him, the slap of shoreline threaded
through screen windows with him. My heart

slams in my chest, against my shirt—it’s a kind
of kindling you’d never be able to light on your own.