by Raphael Kabo
Three times now I’ve managed this:
To line the city like a shimmering fish
From its own water.
It churns on the bank
In a gnash of sun.
And you, Cassandra, who come to me
At night, mouth empty and eyes white:
You who have reason to hate the light,
You tell me the canvas here is dry, tired.
The structure despite the borders
Falls apart inside. The symmetry swells
And rots. I believe even you.
But even you could not tell me this:
How it feels to love two cities at once.
My skin springs open. By the lake, where the carp
Stink and move, a woman aims her camera
At the towers and the sky.
Her husband aims his at her.
I pass the centre line, where
For a moment the halves whole.