Poetry Issue 20


Mark Anthony Cayanan

If this be the true life

Unless we know guilt can be unfounded, my quiet
comes apart in a game of preservation. I cast into
deep water the unloved, three days sealed from light.
And already the quest in the mirror: ask me how soon

before we discompose into blue flame. Every man
passing through me is an announcement in the skin.
He resembles the end that I must dedicate you to:
presents itself read, comes to, and wants to disappear.

He is over and over how I measure warmth. You know,
don’t you, etc. The heart hoards its remorse, and between
mouth and pelvis is the impossible hope. I in this case
is the last dream of the body let go: conclusions fired

in the barely-living morning; the motive, keep it
quiet, so here for good I can scarcely identify ourselves.