ANY MOMENT

Beeswax burns brighter
with time, sings songs
and doesn’t stop loving
its own wicked nature.
What does it mean, to want
to hold your hands open
around that breath of air
where something ought to be
but isn’t? Idle hands turn
instead to knitting, to the palm
kiss of a well-loved knife,
the one used to chop dates
or apples or a wedge of lemon
to place between my buzzing teeth.

212

she had a kind of hex
about her, in the way
she wore things, in
the way she took things
off. She knitted wishes
into linens and named
her days, like errant
children, into myth
or memory –
whichever’s which.
This is the story of
212 and how reality’s
magicked into being
with the flick of a wrist,
a laugh tossed out, just so,
a fishing line.