Mason Gates

mother

this must

be relevant

or you are not

in that room

planning to marry:

first thing

in the morning dogs

who protect infants

the light

buzzing

in there is

gold settling and

dust to be breathed

sheets

over beds and

their tables

a dropped telephone

its warble

fuckery but

soft as rocks

in your mouth

bruxinha

you were

a ghost

for so long

it is difficult

to understand

that now

you are

moon.

nicked

a phrase

and washed

your legs

with it,

the whorl

bony,

splintered.

why is it

that

a thing

who does

not matter

still dies?

let me

keep you

a while

more.

you with

an eye for

snap, in

cahoots

lugging a droll

smoke trail.

Mason Gates is a poet living in Porto.