Raphael Kabo


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.