Untitled 2

Who am I? The more we talk the less I know about

the city lights,
and the starry sky,
and the moon pulling our blood
towards heaven.
Must I only know myself through others? If so then
I have already forgotten my body, which has

a heart
and a web of veins
and bones, too,
but is not those things, no,
just as I am not my hands or my parents or the hands
of my parents' parents, no matter how

they shaped me,
no matter what they did
or did not finally say.
Neither am I stardust,
though I knew a woman who said I am, and whenever she
kissed me I could feel her pull hard, sucking the air

from my lungs to hers,
so that when she opened her lips
it would return
to the stars.
I don't believe that I am air, or beautiful, or necessary.
I know that we die, and I don't know what comes after:

if we turn into dirt;
if we turn into light;
or if the moon, rising, will keep its promise,
and pull us towards heaven



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