The Lunar Calendar
She Pins to the Door

Why spend love? Why
make available
a narrative that evaporates
like rubbing alcohol on cotton?
Do I strategize against wound
even as I head full tilt?
If I lie on my back
and breathe the air
the trees in the courtyard
expire into the window
perhaps I may stop forgetting myself,
quit looking for some other
to locate my own body.
What I do find after coming alone
is if I press my ear flat to the bed
I can hear my heartbeat
in the springs of the mattress deeply.
On your own, you write to me.
Mortal and stunningly adequate.

--Kimiko Hahn