by Sanna Wani
Sanna Wani is a poet in Toronto, studying religion. Her work is also featured or forthcoming in Cosmonauts Avenue, The Puritan, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry. She love daisies.
Of wolves, flowering
We recommend viewing
this poem on desktop.
Begging the sky is something I
have watched mothers do & talking to
it, even now, feels like betrayal. Tinged
with resentment, all those times the sky ignored
the glowing bellies the fish & moons &
small pink suns. Too much water is
borne of me, the sky probably
thinks to itself, but tips more
over into the open mouth of the earth.
Gets nothing back but strange wet floss,
the white suspended. Maybe that’s why,
now, it doesn’t have an answer for the lupin.
The lupin is my mother’s favourite flower.
Buds in summertime our favourite valley.
When the green arrives, it swirls.
Purple with the daisies across the hillsides.
Summers ago, my mother tried to teach me how
to make a strong rope knot, trying to say to me, the only way
to live here, under this sky, is to make a child & to
give it everything you could never give yourself
& I could not correct her without hurting her
so I cracked an egg over her head & I said,
“Turning a child into a god only breeds monsters.”
A rose is a mouth with no teeth
I ask you how many horizons you believe in.
You say two. One behind your teeth. One behind the sun.
I meet you at where your hot neck ends. Where it entwines itself with the daffodils and thick red vines.
You undo your tongue from your mouth and pass it to me like a spare key. I treasure the wetness that hangs from it like dewdrops. Clings to pink flesh. I treasure the way your saliva links wetly between our hands.
I know you had a name once. Something like Europa or Maha, something with an old vowel to bloat in your chest and hang like a drum. I know you had a name once but now it seems reckless.
There are a thousand songs left to sing. Every name is a song. I don’t know where a song goes once it is sung. I think a voice is a soul. I don’t know how the throat can be ripe for that.
There is laughter pealing, a yellow bell. There are gulls who cry, an ocean above. The hum in your chest, unfurling. Wet muscle claiming so many things as things. Wet muscle claiming so many things as things.
Try speaking this into an oyster sometime. Salt staining fat. Take both my lips if you want.
The best I can hope for is that this passes through you once, softly.