Rae Gouirand
The question is always
what I want, not what is wanting—
what end I will make of this walk
which edge I will take for myself.
Before one blue one gold
I know two things.
The same that has held me open
leaves me to see. Our brick
is cold, our shoes no longer fit.
I woke crying out for what I wanted
over and over like it snowed.
I was snow.
Looking hard at what has lasted
it tears. It tears a little as I live.
What do I remember
that second eye waiting on me.
If I could say how I got here
I would—
so whiten these folded knees
focus myself after stars
make crystal air where
air was clear. I am
a brick walk, I am
my own breath. Out those
windows snow
more than we ever asked for
beyond what lamps we burned.
I think about willing myself.
Always the question
which eye you are looking out of
which you are looking into
these moments we spend
locked or tossed
as what pulses pushes back.