a ghazal

a ghazal

how carefully i carry what could shatter , love

is not stone but the sound a stone makes on water – love.

it may enter a room like smoke through a keyhole,

take the shape of whatever it enters, and scatter – love.

tell me: what is the weight of a wing before flight?

less than this. heavier than all the things that matter – love.

i cup my hands around it as my mother cupped a flame

against november wind – how the shadows would clatter – love.

every morning i find it still breathing beside me,

astonished – a caught bird too tired to flatter – love.

the mystics say: hold open-handed. i have tried.

my fists remember everything they could not halter – love.

there is no altar i have not laid my forehead on.

still the priests say: nothing survives the altar – love.

so i press my ear to it like a child to a shell,

listening for the ocean inside the disaster – love.

and the ocean answers: i have always been here.

you are the shore. you were made to come after – love.