Three Poems
Sarah Mirza


Your mouth held onto a single line of sight. This was the rainy season your lips like wet blue bank cheques.

For a change you can force the janitors to weep. Like the coffee of the late afternoon.

Strangely, you could arrange their mouths in a single line in order to compose in tomatoes.

You run your hands down the wrinkles in the walls like a braid.

Persimmon Hydrangea

You're forty-five hundred
watts clearer

a little different from the boy in white
that is his fusion external

I could sleep to that the way the tea
like a word of dark hair in a dream
If there are going to be

questions then let there be a black pear.

The waters

A few moments in the line today. Movement without breath. Transformations occur in identical words. Only then the gender reversed, in a fire that seemed full of snarled thread.
Tightly. Tighter.

For two days he just wrote. He knew what he wanted to say.

After ten days he bought an umbrella. The enemies he kept wept
and turned out empty boxes.
The smell of a single orange filled him as he rolled it around the room.

Suitcases lay bloated and benign on the surface of the canal. In the afternoon cats slept on them, curled
as snail-shells. Bourgeois values waited in the shower. He would scoff at such ideals himself
but want to see her wrapped in them
for photographs. Spouse. child.
Only for the photographs.