Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.
Mass.
Acceleration.
They couple. The
muscles contract.
Force yields.
I cook in the resolute dark, Nana.
Can’t draw candy until it’s cool and still.
Every stir, every cricket in the mosaic of night,
(that shift and lens of cloud-sight where moon shines
On flakes of dead, whispery skin)
Shapes what I make.
No room for surprise.
You watched your telenovela,
You had your cinnamon tea,
You wrapped your brown, scuffed robe
Against your frame
And you went to bed.
Not to wake until 5 or so.
That’s what’s done.
I closed my eyes. A
moment. Thought again of
Typing condolence letters in the Green Zone,
Boxes of ash, slightly warm,
Laden on my desk.
Working at night. I
was not prepared
By your footsteps
Or your shadowy hug.
And I’m sorry, Nana.
It’s just a motion my body makes.
The chocolate seeks optimal care.
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