Throwing Rose, [Anon]

O sprouted tongue, anon, foretold—
          you told me lichen heaped on rock

its belly side, our world of gold in parts.
          I yearned another walk, our skeletal red

morning. Yes, I tripped up wires then
          a rugged thorn standing for time. You threw

after I left, rosy, our kingdom in-between.
          In other words, a gibbon intertwining with

her gibbon, asked of us—that neutralizing
          gap between a canister and spark.

In other words, somebody called me monkey,
          once. Somebody called your people monkey,

too, our body less so slurred, our people
          knowing once before that canister and rock

imploding—that
          which therefore clutched a paw clutching

another tail—an ape holding an ape,
          that heart space limbic ache. I held us, burnt

before that time, anon, our golden speech
          against that belly side of love.

I knew to love you then, that gibbon
          in-between scratching a tree, its lichen

blooming red and red. She’ll make a rose,
          just wait.

 
Sophia Terazawa is the author of two chapbooks, I AM NOT A WAR (Essay Press) and Correspondent Medley (Factory Hollow Press).