Like trying to begin without a past.
Like the dream of universal grammar.
As if months gauged memory's grip.
Like calling it a star, a fever, the fire, the scar.
Like gratitude for the blade.
As if you could repack the galaxy.
Like a song gutted by the tongue's score.
Like keeping my hands to myself.
As if a poem could sing.
Like the certainty you've exhausted the last of your words.
Like everything a poem struggles not to say.
- The title is an abbreviation of the traditional folk song Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair.
- This poem was first published in Potomac Review.