For Rahel Sherman, in honour of Barak’s año (yartzeit)
When we’d lived enough and our bones turned into small, cream-colored memories that quickly broke inside our little dream, I simply admitted you were sleeping, an old fish on the beach, with open eyes like every ocean drying from within, becoming part of salt-mountains and weeds that swarm the floor of those things I’d touched and come to know.
Stay as smooth as rocks upon the shore and let your eyes see me forever. It won’t be easy to dream without you, but life gives itself up through the waters and earth. The body is my touch, my tongue; it hides between unborn words and thoughts. Where there is no longer land, there is a quiet breeze when your voice begins to spill and cover the air. The moon is a fire and nothing will ever feel cold.
Where I am now there is everything, your face being born, fingernails left behind, a bit of carelessness accidently preserved, something promised only to me; torn pictures…