you lift your hands and all you see
is a silverware of clouds to hold the moon.
you do not question the disappearance of your hands.
your hands are murals. silver buttons. leaven.
when night flowers into dawn, I find my shadow
in the shape of a cicada. I bury
my blue shirt. there is nothing but pappus
in the fouetté of the wind, the certainty
that one always breathes in a memory.
you give me words in parchments and bones,
cup the red leaf of my breath. I touch you
to reach an immemorial area; I touch you
and reach memento mori, my blue shirt strewn across
your bed, a language of tarnished leather shoes
and lemon orchards, a cicada expiring in a lampshade.
~ Triin Paja
Triin Paja is an Estonian, living in a small village in rural Estonia. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Tinderbox, BOAAT, Fractal, Gloom Cupboard, and elswhere.