Called Back, Called Back

Acquit me, make me
purblind, unbloomed, a thing that,
when aroused,
remains dormant, unused, none
among many. As the bulb that persists within its sullen,
despondent mood, alive, but no more, no better
than some kind of senseless meat.
I turn away but wherever I turn I encounter
the same soft refrain—
I did not call you, lie back down.
I did not call, lie back, lie down.
There is death and then
there is sleep, or I no longer know who’s calling or
what I’ve heard or what I’ll say. As, when roused once more
by your voice-light, its endless drag and weight,
I move
as a tuber on the verge of swelling, the called-forth,
fruited body, caught between monad and many,
between almost and already.

Joshua Kryah
Called Back, Called Back is reprinted from Glean (Nightboat Books, 2007).