by Nimaya Grace Lemal
They came here sculpted for it,
They came undone,
They came here in two parts:
They spoke. They wrote. They held their tongues.
They came here retching—to every taste siphonic
Clung to “possibly” like pretense—call them lonely, call them
symbiotic—
They came wound for the springing—bodies taut but still unstrung—
They came to persist in a clamor—a well-oiled and unspoiled din
—singing! almost—
And still asking—stacked each floor
Their whispering of something softer than sifts itself in words
They fit,
perfect.
They fit and fit
and failed against themselves
They sat here, in a noble likeness,
and fell flat in overthinking
They knew, and they knew that they knew nothing.
They touched hands
On the edge of their own coming,
Figurines in a small globe, shaking
And beat the skin of the year like the bells that cried war on campus—
Like the wringing might harmonize into something like love.
They came here sculpted for it
They came undone
They came here in two parts:
They spoke. They wrote. They held their tongues.