i. how lonely sits the city

after lamentations 1

How lonely sits the city
that was once full of people 

as if the whole of her vibrant being has become an old, greying
forgotten attic, overnight 

as if the soul of her body sits, head on fist , leaning 
as far as she can 

out the window, looking out at—what, 
exactly? There is not much 

to see anymore, and so great is the temptation 
to snatch up the towel and throw it, 

praying it transfigures into a jagged stone 
as it flies like a weapon 

through the air, creating shards 
out of the window pane on impact. 

But it is just a cloth, and all that is 
imprinted is a hushed brush, like a fossil drawn in the dust 

caking the walls. How lonely sits the city 
where I lost myself—see, I don’t know 

where my heart is, don’t know 
if she is wandering

the abandoned streets of my churning
stomach, or choking to death

on the smoke, or hiding, dazed
and alone in the dusty attic, surrounded 

now, by silence. I am searching in slow motion 
for the city of bones, of lights

gone out. I want her back, 
beating, panting, groaning, wild. I want her back

in my chest, so terribly 
alive, want her to throw 

her arms wide in an embrace of the wilderness
of everything. I want to teach her to weep. 

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