Gently Still Finding You Between
spirals in the shell you left behind,
on staircases, in tiny unseen rooms,
interstices, hidden ventricles,
auricles collapsed and yet alive,
imaginary origami hearts,
a nautilus still pumping through the days
that lost you in their downy underside
like sepals undernoticed, or a potted
cactus near the window no one looks through.
What liquids had been stored in you for years?
Love or some restrained guffaw or blooming
should have burst through sediment and rock.
So much to say, we found no way to talk.
The droplets never touched the cavern floor —
bonded to the minerals that melt
in geologic time, you are no more,
although your shape still shadows my old thoughts:
a gentle tapping on the window's cold.
A film of rain coats footprints on the stairs.
Siham Karami lives in Florida where she co-owns a technology recycling company. Her poems have appeared in Raintown Review, Amsterdam Quarterly, Mezzo Cammin, The Lavender Review, Angle Poetry, String Poet, Shot Glass Journal, 14 by 14, Innisfree Journal, and New Verse News, among other venues, as well as in the upcoming anthology Irresistible Sonnets.