Katherine Yao

I’m not going to make you

leave the poem.


Selfishly, I must admit, part of me clings

to the remains of objectivity, 


or at least the subjectivity of a guy with a name 

like Walt or William or one of those names


that is all first names. But here you are

in the poem, though I have redacted


your name for privacy. 

Redacted, Redacted, Redacted — now I can say it all I want. 


If you’d listened you’d know 

I only ever promised


difficulty. Haven’t you seen

how hard I fight for each poem?


Nothing can be expected from Paris. 

All they have given us rots. 


You told me once you often think unsummarizable things,

and I didn’t know what you meant,


and I loved you for it. 

You, my algo diferente. 


Once, I dreamed 

of a common language.


Somehow, we were most honest

when language split open. 


The closest I can offer you

to sense is couplets. 


Can’t you hear the cicadas 

pleading? They too


have loved this mutilated world. All I want 

is to see you again tomorrow.