SONNET ON DISCOVERY

Last month, we ate oysters. Gazing at the
bay’s soft, lapping blue. Then drove home through the
vast forests and I thought about what lasts.
The profound, wondrous band-aid we call love.
Time feels so violent, I seek violence back.
How scholars found language on stone tablets,
called this luck possession. Codifying
as a form of conquest, but no one talks
about the longing heart. We get so harsh
and untethered when confronted with words
we do not know. Stars and friendship–– these are
real. But history is artificial.
On solstice night, I part the curtains wide,
and swollen moonlight spills onto my bed.

august

you brush my hair when I am sick
a dove builds her nest 
on my balcony
dusty yellow concrete
summer’s spiderwebs 
I let my plants die rather than disturb her

your hands are so much 
bigger than mine
grasping fine-tooth comb, wet shoulders 

gestures of care 
can be so hard to come by

but look! spring’s consistent re-birth
the way you cradle my palms
or a neat pile of twigs
dusted with feathers 

when I lost my voice for five days 
I only listened to the birds 
breathing august air 
into tired lungs, checking to see if the babies 
have been born

days when the marvelous seems everywhere

nature reminds us 
it’s okay to want beauty 
to sometimes rest, to let you keep holding
when the dove finally leaves 
I know I will miss her 

this city has no seasons 
so we have to make them up

spring is yesterday, now, tomorrow, and tomorrow

Sarah Yanni is a Mexican-Egyptian writer and editor. She is the author of Hard Crush (Wonder Press) and has published writing in the Los Angeles Review of Books, Mizna, Wildness Journal, Iterant Mag, and others. She has been recognized as a Finalist for BOMB Magazine's Poetry Contest, Kelsey Street Press' QTBIPOC Poetry Contest, the Hayden's Ferry Review Poetry Contest, and the Letras Latinas Andres Montoya Poetry Prize. She lives in Los Angeles.