Poetry: Dear Wanderer by Amaranth Borsuk
A mocker bristles in his cording.
This thing I’ve been avoiding: sleep’s scrutiny.
The bird and I are bridled, awake, a vinculo.
Our avodah– attraction. I’d like to play
dream’s ocarina and do, do not.
I’d like to put my lips where they might
make good on this languor. We’re wide with rapture.
We have a sweet rapport– we repeat
our songs and silences of courtship. I too have traps:
each cup ring a clapnet, each nocturne a snare.
Wise, O wise, the mockingbird sings I’m OK,
kay, sharp cricket, sharp saw. Night, I’m awful.
I want another chance to eat up all the light.