Nuar Alsadir

Morning

by Nuar Alsadir

when dark, is not that,
morning, but more like rain:

a sky of smog-stuck potatoes;
frustration without eyes.

The way I did nothing exhausted me:
I fed the wall,

ran water over my body
until it swirled down the drain.

On a determinable plane
I am undetermined,

on a moving train,
unable to find a seat.

The edge is what knows me,
the face half-carved off,

the gutter that gathers its objects
like knives, without connection,

here what is not there and vice versa.
I lie. I have seven jars of lies:

one for each day and the joy!
of repetition. Weeks redouble

and hold me still, anchors sprout
from my feet, stand in for will.

Desire is the lie I tell on Tuesday.
I tell it with my socks off

to be understood. The color
of intent is the crispness of bread;

whoever wants the heel
comes last to the table.

Nuar Alsadir is a poet and essayist. She is the author of the poetry collections Fourth Person Singular (2017), a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award and the Forward Prize for Best Collection; and More Shadow Than Bird (Salt Publishing, 2012). She works as a psychotherapist and psychoanalyst in private practice in New York.