Some mornings I wake
with only an ounce of myself.
It is just a moment,
of Persephone’s long and fruitless winter,
when all the bitterness of the pomegranate seed
into a thimbleful of regret,
an ounce of the last day’s thoughts and mysteries;
is all that I have become.
Today I am a mote of soot
upon the underside
of a straying star somewhere
along a lighted dotted line
that will never taste my devotion
or scent the staleness in my skin.
I am too tired to race the sun,
and yet trail in its faded wake,
clinging to an old design
of golden feathers
and stalks of free and playful wheat.
Can an ounce of me ever be
the taste of light inside a bottle?
There was a time when I believed.
But gold and silver lose their threads
under years of silenced love,
with only enough left
for another dance
inside the curve of his hand,
where I may lose my scent,
forget my indecisions,
free from the need for a name.