What is left of the garden is the dream (A Cento)

Fog and rain. The stream runs brown—

It rankles to think my thinking
may senselessly inhere, be merely
in here

I do not mean to say desire is everything.
But earth will do to exhume a heart.

My nostalgia is never a lovely wishing but instead
soldiers marching through yellow fields, dizzy with nausea.

Dress of milk and wire.
Threaded hearts,
barbed ornaments.

Let us eat what makes us holy
before the next war comes.

[source texts: Dave Bonta, Sylvia Curbelo, J. Allyn Rosser, Donika Kelly, Nicole Cooley, Hadara Bar-Nadav, Emily Jungmin Yoon, Ghassan Zaqtan (trans. Fady Joudah)]

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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