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Margita Gailitis

Margita Gailitis

There Was No Weather

There was no weather, as I remember
when we first met. We didn't discuss
how hot how cold how depressing
how shall we prolong    evade    the rain

You'd enter rooms raw waiting
for my skin to run to you wrap
as cellophane does, excluding nerve
ends tied mind ribboned, but
that was before

                      we started speaking
lost our thees and thous,
assumed albino identities,
shielded our fragilities

our language
without diminutives
                      a language
that does not distinguish
us from crowds
dodging pain.

Into Concealment

The woman no longer
sits at her window,
burns her welcoming eyes.

The man who last came
for oblivion to her body
paid in sorrow,
pulled her blinds.

She paints her mouth
into red-triangled silence,
into concealment, concubine,

where she braids the disordered
fringe of her senses, a lacquered coil
she pins to the questions in her mind.

She draws her hands back
into self-embrace, hidden
in the sling of a kimono sleeve,
her fingers press to her pulse
that murmurs, over and over, her name.