between me and the glass’. Illustration: Rowan Righelato/The Guardian
How to Be a Fern
Blue-white then inky grey then hailstones
go pitter-patter on the glass.
The city I loved whose name I’ve erased returns
between me and the glass
as the thunder bends like saxophones
buried inside one of Keats’s urns.
Give me a second chance, the city insinuates.
A legion of storm clouds evaluates
me. I was young, opened my heart
too soon and the wind tore it apart
just like that. Wind was never a city
except when it drained the blood,
stuffed silences like cotton wool
into my ears, eyes, nose, asshole,
mouth, and preserved what was left in me in mud
Silence is the city I still kiss, not reason
with. Many springs have swung by
and I keep kissing, unfurling my tongue
for the city in me I can’t return
to isn’t rain, wind, or glass. I’m no fern.
Tell me how to be, and I’ll learn
and unlearn.
