Throwing Rose, [Anon]
O sprouted tongue, anon, foretold—
you told me lichen heaped on rock
its belly side, our world of gold in parts.
I yearned another walk, our skeletal red
morning. Yes, I tripped up wires then
a rugged thorn standing for time. You threw
after I left, rosy, our kingdom in-between.
In other words, a gibbon intertwining with
her gibbon, asked of us—that neutralizing
gap between a canister and spark.
In other words, somebody called me monkey,
once. Somebody called your people monkey,
too, our body less so slurred, our people
knowing once before that canister and rock
which therefore clutched a paw clutching
another tail—an ape holding an ape,
that heart space limbic ache. I held us, burnt
before that time, anon, our golden speech
against that belly side of love.
I knew to love you then, that gibbon
in-between scratching a tree, its lichen
blooming red and red. She’ll make a rose,
Sophia Terazawa is the author of two chapbooks, I AM NOT A WAR (Essay Press) and Correspondent Medley (Factory Hollow Press).