Fish Year

Girl, you say by the low
tide of some river, after

the dugout boats kissing
the shoreline have ferried us

into open markets
where we give the women our hands

and, in dark shops, ask them to make the curvilinear
black henna marks we have seen on them.

Then it’s quiet again.
In the room of some town

we remember now by its trees.
Girl, you say to me each time it darkens, and

say even to the shadow leaves falling in the room
as if asking: stain us with your darker memory.

Nighttime in the postfuck,
after we have begun

one of the rare anime films you find and left
it paused again on some cherry blossom

field, felts of thin light rimming the borders
of our door from the narrow hotel passage.

Girl, you call me in time, where this too can be forgotten.
As the fish in foil, that I,

impossible to satisfy,
kept buying from that suburb store.

The hands that made them asking for more
things in dim light:

salt, oil, while we waited.
As if this were the kind of year

we could ask for anything,
mescal in the random street shop,

and it would be brought to us.
Time to stand still and in some grove,

there would be the orange of the dying
sun falling over the town houses. In the fields,

it would be daylight and another year.

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