October 3, 2009

you find her
tucked away
between the pages
of an old book.

nestled in the folds
of that journal
with the tethered corners.

she is
that intransitive verb,
that noun that rolls of your mouth,
your imperfect preterit.

she is
another notch
in your belt of leather sorrows.

her words
onto the journal
of your flesh.

it’s time
to de-compose the essay.

~Sarahi Yajaira, 2009