Counting

— Laboni Islam

Sister, in lunar years
we are older,

between
high and low tide.

The Moon
tugs water,

its turbulence
smoothing us

as sea glass.

How many times
have we turned

ourselves over
and over,

felt sand
falling through?

Geese
flock home

and we are thinking
about time,

about meridians
made prime.

Lightning scorches sky
expanding air

like a lung
that seeks

its first shape.

Have we been honest
with ourselves?

Questions
fork brightly

through our bodies
and we count

seconds
till the clap —


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