I am here kneeling on the carpet floor
Flipping through Atwood’s
As if I can catch one verse
That could draw your smile
Scrambling foreign words
To find your tales
But I only followed the strokes
Of an inkless pen
And scent of books too ancient
For winter has never been this cold
No November ever felt so haunting
If it’s your ghost, I could take it
Your tongue who taught me to speak
Now all I can do is wail,
Softly hum,
“Nay”
Who am I to feel weak?












