Today I wondered what happens to a wish

after it goes unfulfilled to the box of wishes

waiting for time to stop its body from breathing

until it is a plume of dirt that draws no interest

how humble it becomes after beliefs on it

burn up like something contorting onto itself, for

example, orange rinds kept at kitchen window sill

how it accepts partialities done on its face like skies

that keep darkness of clouds and nights in silence

once on losing my wristwatch I had wished I

never possessed it. To which mother answered

the pain of loss can’t be submerged in pond of

back time. If there is a way to erase touches of

those we loved. We could’ve called memory a verb

that melted to a nothing. Smoke rising devoted

to anything but wishes that deny being opened

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