A wine crate for a nightstand, and on it, a rose
gone bad in a cup. Its water
a swallow of shadow, murk of rot
and sugar. Clothes sloughed, bodiless, and half-
eaten on a plate,
a plum in its juice. At the center
of the scene: a woman on a mattress
on the floor. Her arms cast out
as if preparing to fly
or as if pinned, savior
or specimen. Still asleep.
Day breaking through the window
a warm leak.
The woman in its spotlight
like a halo. As if something holy,
or at least chosen.
From Deluge (Copper Canyon Press, 2020). Copyright © 2020 by Leila Chatti. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.