The ghost in my mouth holds me close
his fondness, to his waiting,
he has my eyes, my sea legs, my fractions
and interest in mind.
raise a little lantern
to his observance and grow a little older.
I rinse my face for launch
like victory against the blinds. But my face is returned
wherever I look. I look at the moon and my mouth
is all hooves. I can barely say what had me holding my breath.
Maybe nothing will come of this. Where now,
my little light? Forests thicken. Foot rests. Chicken.
are all in my feelings.
to the mirage rising, camels and palm fronds,
the fanning that reveals itself
blood built on blood. The friends I had.
I am no longer afraid of their kisses.
Sam White lives in Providence,
Rhode Island, where he works as an illustrator and writes poetry.
Originally published in the December
2003/January 2004 issue of Boston Review