Violeta García-Mendoza

Edit out those things you would not
believe in:  the corner the wind made,
the curve of the sun being poured, honey held
in the mouth like forgiveness.  Forget. 

The language lost, you've no name to call
the cost of your wanting.  Still I could speak of that
house of tears, trail of straw. 

If only I would, then
you'd misremember it all: words burning
like tents you would not bow before
this no longer love.