mother
this must
be relevant
or you are not
in that room
planning to marry:
first thing
in the morning dogs
who protect infants
the light
buzzing
in there is
gold settling and
dust to be breathed
sheets
over beds and
their tables
a dropped telephone
its warble
fuckery but
soft as rocks
in your mouth
Â
bruxinha
you were
a ghost
for so long
it is difficult
to understand
that now
you are
moon.
nicked
a phrase
and washed
your legs
with it,
the whorl
bony,
splintered.
why is it
that
a thing
who does
not matter
still dies?
let me
keep you
a while
more.
you with
an eye for
snap, in
cahoots
lugging a droll
smoke trail.
Â
Mason Gates is a poet living in Porto.