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.

 

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