Prism Sonnet No. 2
Ava Goga
You: precious diagram of
nerves, figure weaved from
bite and boil. Grief was an
orchard you walked through.
Nothing yet is news––not the
fist of nettles in your skull,
the hum and rust, not the
heatstroke, how being alive
makes a burden for you. But
I'm a realist––to be your other
means to spend my whole
life walking, let you tell me
how time & dark will turn
any animal eyeless.