It was not given me to write in the primary colors.
I did not recognize the 350,000 species of beetle.
I loved what was spare but could not draw it.
My luck and errors equally mostly escaped me.
My eyes faltered, but found their way to different windows.
The fate-souk bartered my shapes and sounds between stalls.
When the keyboard offered an incomprehensible symbol,
I reached my hand out, as if to a Ouija board’s invitation
or a stair’s polished handrail—because it was incomprehensible,
because my hand could add its own oils to that railing.
This poem appears in the July/August 2022 print edition.
Source:: The Atlantic – Best of