Double Slit

after Cindy Juyoung Ok

You can never record joy
because the act of freezing violets
is just that—an act.

The only fish people know of
are the gutted bodies eagles
drop into the river. This is because

water hides anything alive
by moving violently, as if
it also harbors intention.

I’m no different. When asked
if I still loved you I pretend
to shower for a week. Instead

of breathing I type
more spaces.          I fantasize
about running 100 yellow lights,

eating plastic flowers, rivers so careful
we could drown,       gleaming, and tourists
would still perform flash photography.

I’m sorry. I’m still trying          to parse sorry
from reflections               on your watery tongue.
But even clean mirrors collapse into one

when I fall                  asleep, which is to say
once I want to remember you
you’ll only ever exist                in memory,

which harbors           the confidence
        of            a patterned dream.
                                           So don’t let me.