by Babo Kamel

You flew out of yourself as mist rising
beyond the insistence of sorrow which hovers
like a gray flightless bird.

You said that all you needed was music.
And kindness. Were you singing then?
Charles called and said it has happened, we will never be the same.

Sometimes I become the tiny spider I greet every morning.
We understand each other and know words and worlds meld
into a constellation of language, untranslatable.

Do questions emerge in the world you inhabit?

You asked me once what to do with all your anger.
I was helpless beside your bed. I floated in silence.
My mouth was a cave with no water.

Remember the spider web too high to reach.
It clung to its corner, the way I never clung to you.
I brought you ice chips. I sponged your lips with coffee.

You dreamt you found yourself in the town across the tracks.
The one with every garden mistaking the grass for grief.
I tried to call you back. Why couldn’t I call you back?

Image by NastyaSensei via Pexels