The
Space between Your Sighs
scared me the most. In that stillness, I knew
you hid fingernails and chalkboards.
I knew I couldn't outrun
the sound of that stillness,
and I knew I couldn't stay –
all I had were hands that wouldn't clench.
So I held up the barrel of a dream:
its open eyes wept pardons,
its open mouth spoke forgetting.
I said, "Can you see yourself here?"
And you took my question,
folded into a porcelain nightingale,
threw into the air,
and asked me to watch it
try to fly.
The
Cracks of Knowing
on
the crying
marble that folded its
eye-filled fingers around
the wet hunger
I felt when I tried to embrace
the tilted prayers
you breathed
out into the darkness –
such flames, such embers
pirouetting into the mouth
of the fragrant black sky –
given back to you as silken
cold laughter.
David Calogero Centorbi is from Detroit, Michigan. He is the
author of Landscapes of You and Me
(Alien Buddha Press) and After
Falling into Disarray (Daily Drunk Press).