Wrapped in the neon of the city,
I love you because the moon is spinning backwards.
Evolved enough to cradle in a child’s joined hands,
the movements of the moon divvy up the year,
the floating helix of a small, private eternity.
After death I blossomed into a tulip.
My eyes do not lie.
The next day the news was found nowhere.
She brushes her hair back over her ear,
just enough to make it dance,
not enough to make it die.
I lingered again
in the rain.
During every First Tuesdays open mic, we communally compose a cento using language taken from each open-mic reader’s offering. This cento is composed of lines from the work of: Peter Marra, David Siller, Dan Fleshler, Herb Rubenstein, Henry Sussman, Andrew Dick, Monija Rahman, Ayo Inerhunwunwa, Shams Momin, and Ronit Malekan