The Edge of Our Species – Sha Weï

The unwritable remains


The unreachable remains


 in waves of thoughts.

Shamelessly I scattered

particles of myself

in every corner of our mouths

to prove my existence

to remain traceless.

As traceless as

the last lover’s

unmistakable hair

lurking under the surface

of our psyche.

Expirable entanglement

 hiding and waiting

to make a melodramatic appearance

to hijack thinly regained breaths

                                               when we least expect it.


     My eyes are tired

                                              from climbing the height

                    of folk words.                      


                                                    I thought abundance

                                                       was good.                   Let’s loot.


       Second blossom ripples

                                                      skin of water.     

                                                                                Render lotus years.                   Thinning.

                              Luster of yearnful tea       soaked in

yesterday's madeleine.


                                                                                Solace of neon youth

                                  never cared for the blues.


                 Wake-in-dreams Daddy

                                                                      running out of homes.



                                          Dip my finger deep

                                                                                  into the fissure of fear.


         Dangle – feverishly – at the edge

                                                              of our species.        Addicted

                                                                                                             – truthfully – to the unknown.        


Black Poem

                            A deaf soldier hides

                                                       his last German-speaking breath

                                         in an attic, under the dust

                                                   as he opens my chest

    throws a grenade inside me

                                                                        Just like that

                    I was pregnant

     with gunpowder and tulips

                              in Margratte’s golden hair

Hauled back to my bed

                                       by the beams of day

                                                  There is no dust on my linen sheets

                                         Only your lost words of war

     I want to tell you about the tulips  and the attic

                                                       I know you would laugh

                                  and cry

                                                and dance          

                                                                  and jump

        You would smile

                                                from the bottom of your eyes

                       like you are the only one

                                                                                                  who gets it

                      You would make a savory remark

              that only you

                                     would make

                                                          like you are the only one who

                                                                        has lived it


         I have been meaning to tell you

about the deceased poem you unearthed

            about the grave words I soiled

                                                                         We count the almonds

                                                                                                     black milk

                                                                                         in our mouths

                           I meant to call you back

              all these years, or weeks

                                                      However long it has

                                          been, I really did

                                                                      mean to return

                                                       your silent cries and

                                                                                        lost signs

                  It’s just

                                               I never felt like talking

                                                                             or         intimacy

                  I have so much to tell you

                                                       Only if I could


                                                                                           your name

                                                                                                             or your face

 Boil Your Minutes to Dry

I am sorry

for the times

I couldn’t cry right

I am sorry

for boiling your minutes

till they ache

your nights

I am sorry

for scattering

my bits

to drip

Didn’t mean to

rip the rope

I weaved into my

paw-licking mane

Didn’t mean to

let myself run


into pieces

The grip on me

I once called

the past

sinks its teeth

into my sleep

Just when I thought

I was free

That lingering song

deflates my knees

lures me into the sea

Finally unveils to me

its real name

– the name

I call myself

when I am