They promised to give me the song’s weight in gold so I carved the song in granite.
We put my songs in the fruitless garden. Look at the light pouring there! you gasp,
digging around the cold hard trees, rubbing their barks with milk.
I’ve carved all I could so I make more milk. From the silver lake
you cry tonight’s desire would split stone, rouse spring;
we sit by the cold numb songs: these temples without doors.
I try to confess I know nothing about trees— that I’ve always feared my songs
had the wrong kind of flesh— but hoarse, you whisper Look at the light
pouring there & I must protect god from my doubt. My lack of imagination.
I ask you to be god. I lick the prehistoric salt map off your back, wave to the lost
pilgrims, the finches, the green horses galloping from the next hurricane.
I count on my fingers to make sure all the nights have had days.
I bark at the hours songless. Afraid you will love me less—
afraid I will singe the new vines around our waists.
FEAR & IRRIGATION by Sara Elkamel