[n., yearning; wistful longing; desire]

by Cambria Jones

spinning a globe of ridged places
I have never visited
against the familiar ridges of my
like conversation circling
a coffee shop table,

like sibilance whispered
in a stranger’s language I long to
like the insides of my own eyelids—

also to savour for more than a
beating golden moment
the taste of honeysuckle against my tongue.

Invincible snowflakes must exist somewhere
as if the world were cold glass—
to slice my fingers with their fronds and
slide their precarious edges across a lip,
flash them fierce in the sunlight

like a brilliant mind
(maybe Plato)—

wrap myself around him
sink into wisdom and lies.

Here stand the depths of my love for thinking and
here rests shallowness of my capacity for thinking;

I bob breathlessly between surface and bottom.
I long for some ocean

without salt,
without oxygen,
without sand

just a measurelessness
and a final submergence.

Category: Poetry