by cyn­thia cruz

pho­tographs of pho­tographs and polaroids 

of stacks of books on frag­ments

and pho­tographs and pam­phlets

on let­ters sent and immi­nent 

col­li­sions. what the body does not know 

it wants. and the mind.

in the song i wrote,

i said i want­ed to be 

like you, but then

i pulled back.

i am afraid most of the time

of my own inten­si­ty.

not its kine­sis, its bril­liant light

and ener­gy, but that it might

fright­en you.

i have tried my whole life

to con­tain it, hold it

back. make myself

into the per­fect song,

the most con­tained

poem. but now i am

let­ting go of all that.

i have tak­en to pho­tograph­ing

my every moment

in an attempt to locate

the place where i lost myself.

when the body and the mind con­flate

or, rather, when the body and lan­guage. 

that is the moment i have been wait­ing for.


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