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.