Cardamom
I was breathless, born from silk
and half-dim prayer. Look over. Sun
smears gold across the hollow of my chest,
the slats of your side.
You say Haitian vetiver
stains linen like drawn blood
and August warmth. It levels the ground
when I sink towards the blackwood flat.
Remember those mornings, bluet,
there is war behind the city wall.
The heat splits the rooftops in scripture,
learning it the same as your cracked lips
bend to sear grails of fever on first light.
Now, tell me. Speak your name. Brand it
to my skin. It burns. I do not cry, baby
breathe, evensong— There is no brink
to the art of wanting you.
Liyah Kinsler is a poet and journalist from Virginia. Her work explores desire, memory, and the boundary between the body and interior life through lyric fragments and image-driven language. She is currently working on her first poetry collection.
