Ghazal You Will Never Read

Viva Wittman

You remember, it was August: hot mulch, mint soap, bitter greens all in a row,
Chickens soon, there was no moon, no wind, no school, no

See rainbow chard, fried kalo in a bowl, see meteors shoot
No—slice, no, slash, heaven in ribbons, no clouds, no

You remember, you stared: eyes blue, whites pink, white teeth,
Your knees on mine, your shins, your feet, no shoes, no

See moths, see flames sputtered out, my big sister closing her door,
Down-mountain: night-yellowed towns—you were leaving but not yet, no

You remember, you said that I smelled of lamb, hand on my wrist,
Nose in my armpit, this close to licking—no need to leave so soon, no 

See the windows dew by two, by five the vog will glow,
You had not made love to a woman in a long time, no

You remember, wooden ceiling beams, the geckos and the ants—you, running 
In the dawn from where I lay, imagining I wouldn’t ever say, no

To see me as a child then, you’d have to first become a man,
No Peter Pan, no idling—you were never one for change, no

But you’d remember none of it this way: Alive, unfixed, and unatoned
You’d remind me that I never told you no.

Viva Wittman was born and raised in Hawai’i and now lives in New England. Her prose has appeared or is forthcoming in Laurel Review, Carve Magazine, Loam, Bloodletter Magazine, and Action, Spectacle. She is a graduate of Bennington College.