Queer Poem-a-Day is a program from the Adult Services Department at the Library and may include adult language.
Ana, I don’t forget those mornings I rested in your childhood
blizzard town, where time froze and we walked knee-deep
toward each other.
I was a stranger everywhere, I wept at the homeness of your language
weight of your pen’s black line, circumference
of your thick hair bound—impossibly ungendered. Leather
satchel at your chest heavy with stones, a spell.
Today’s wind is bold, my windows shake with language.
What is the message? Birds, trees, and buildings register
although they’re human-made. I think I might be otherwise.
Wish I wasn’t prone to put myself in the center of stories
of the Earth, the heart, its weather. This clear sky is otherwise
radiant. It streams through glass onto my hands
warming them. Sometimes I see a woman with rings
on every finger and think of drives north to Astoria.
That baker gave us her begonia because I loved its underside
—hot red hearts—she loved us, our strangerness.
Raw buckwheat honey we bought off the truck religiously,
road over Youngs River so close to water I could taste it.
Anxious for wild coastline, there are days when I think I know
why we loved each other, readily, away from daily life
rarely in it. Days I unknow
like death unwinds a clock.
Unknowing is a kind of language too, a kind of wind.
If we had known how to forgive each other at the same time—
In the shadowlight, staring at a satellite, imagining an owl.
It is impossible to really know another person, you taught me that.
Wild things come as often as they leave, don’t they?
Copyright © 2021 by Gala Mukomolova. Used with the permission of the author. Previously published in Home is Where You Queer Your Heart Anthology.