The distinct nature of your hand
gestures are fixed in the back
of my eye. I see them at the same
time I see everything else.
Fingers, forearms, the small of my
back. I have been regenerated.
Each particle of skin—each cell
has a different impression.
Nothing is supplementary.
I am understanding repossession;
the taking back, the waking up.
The language of this heart-stirring
is palpable—like a train rolling past
my window, on a night when the wind
slips across my cheek like it never has
before. My mouth opens for new air.
I archive things inside my chest,
locking them away for later.
For those moments when nothing
falls into place, when no word makes
sense, when every face looks commonplace.
Translation has landed in my arms.
It is extraordinary the way the line
of your jaw catches light in the evening.