Sometimes remembering refuses us. Sometimes I’m
a shoreline the water of memory drags its palm across.
In a daisy field. In a garden. In a graveyard, in the sun, its valley.
In the sound of nothing. Your mother and father, two trees
in the distance. In the distance. In the sound of the whistle,
someone banishing you again. A hand in the distance, a greeting.
In a greeting, a question. How old are you? Six? Seventeen?
In your body, aging, an immediacy. A flower, a new arm.
Eat the apple. Your lips redden. The person you were,
you are always becoming. Their breath spilling over
your neck. A breath, a shore, a whistle, a knife. Where is the wind?
In love, the wounds you tend. A wound, a door, a lake, a fence.
Whatever is perpendicular to your becoming. Time is a terrible statue.
The tide will eat its skin. To prevent heartbreak, practice disappearing.
All the eels are missing. You are an expert in missing. A mouth,
a lock, a gate, a key. Open your mouth and throw the word yet
into the river. Into the river, your face leaking glass. A face,
a flood, a crystal, a dove. Someday, you will be in love again.
The sun, a wound on your windowsill. Light falls
on your dreams. It sounds like someone knocking.
Sanna Wani lives between Mississauga and Srinagar. She loves daisies.