Triolet

 

 

Deborah Finkelstein, US   Before Me   I hope she doesn't go before me How could I handle that? I never thought the door was so close I hope she doesn't go before me Open wounds paint her skin Tubes zig zag around her body I hope she doesn't go before me I couldn't handle that.     Glimpse of the Spirit   Glimpse of the spirit Shout like a red ghost Light diminishes Glimpse of the spirit Stone breath Candles out Glimpse of the spirit Shout like a red ghost     We Do Not Move   We do not hear them say, “Let’s go,” We do not move. We are hungry. We do not hear them say, “Let’s go.” We bathe in orange panang, red tea on our lips As rice noodles entangle themselves in a sea of massaman. We do not hear them say, “Let’s go,” We do not move.