by Sarah Maclay
Let’s imagine I’m translating something to you —
you, asleep, or sleepless or naming
that third place — between —
with the tips of your tapering fingers —
I don’t know the language.
In the mind — in that strangely shared chamber —
that is, I mean, in your hands,
where you show me those scenes of confusion and flight
with such intimacy, and don’t know it —
even sans color, sans liquor, sans shape,
we are twins. Fraternal. Unknown.
The moon, invasive, huge,
lunging in through the windows,
makes no exceptions —
It’s true: it will never happen / you’d be surprised.