For Which We Have No Language by Michael Robins
to be exceptional minus the lopsided heart
For Which We Have No Language
A most mothering shade in this sky, not for long & like anyone I’d prefer my evenings without regret. Neither am I here to complain for the walls awaken a word like water or is it the stolen image of a lime, make it half a lime among the oranges. I’ve spoken plenty for the flood of restlessness, having wanted some exception, to be exceptional minus the lopsided heart or lending my name to a disease. We’ve taken hours, wished all afternoon to float & know to what lengths we might keep our breath. To own the love of finches? That’s one way of beginning. To survive like a softened pear? The children come, believing the moon follows us alone. We hold hands briefly, again before not sleeping.
