Love that is not madness is not love.
by Djelloul Marbrook
We’re born to pass through walls
unmuddled by geometries,
to crumple dimensions in our pockets,
paint imaginings in the air,
born to rip persuasion
from our faces, to know
our parents speak in fear.
In which dream do we sleep,
day too staged to trust, or night
where we’ve seen everything before?
Heaven is as we remember it.
We’re not strangers anywhere.
We’re lost among derangements,
but wind bears the scent of home.
Morning is always unfamiliar.
We must relearn each object’s nap.
Sometimes we can’t remember
the ways in which we’re bent,
waiting for the image in the mirror
to evaporate, hoping to return
to an original condition
sparkling restive in our marrow.
In so many eyes elixir, why
unnatural wont to turn away
and why in the grace of deja vu
are we in the way of ourselves?
If you tied your shoes together
you’d get around no worse
than grabbing a cab and thinking
you’re actually getting somewhere.
I can’t brush off memory of flight,
the awareness of a puma,
translucence of a leaf.
I remember huddled atoms
in a Macedonian shield,
near rebellion in Baybars’ sword,
nothing too exquisite to bear.
Then I remember to pretend
I’m going to be buried here.