Who barred the limestone door?
And will he never come again?
And won’t it ever be again?
Is it rue for you, or for me too?
Umbrellas in the road, the rain
Comes hard this April on
Main Street. All smells of
Rubber and I remember
The ants crawling on your legs.
Those ants lodged in the crevice
Of calves, lapping up orange juice
As gently you carved the fruit.
Have you carried them with you?
A thousand crawling impatiences?
Or have you let them wash away
As the dirt and the
Day washes away
From my bare arms in this heat of
The doors of this city won’t open.
I walk into walls of pure sheet.
Water is a body and a body crossed,
Unmoving. The cars drive through
Walls of flood. Horns sound through
The gurgles of time
Like the deft wailing of your mouth
That became four walls of black,
Slick and sticky and full of rage.
I ran out of it into the city,
Filling and emptying with
Endless, meaningless feet.
Ah, the fear
Against the stone
And nothing shifts to let me in
And nothing shifts to be let go
And out here I grow still and cold.
— Olivia Cantadori