I wrote to the lover Who was convinced Of her wordlessness: Sweep me up in a dustpan. Pinned the letter to the wall with a thumbtack. My body unfamiliar, Twitching like a roach Escaping the shadow Of a shoe. Later found hiding Huddled in the corner Of a closet. Why speak so candidly Of chronic sleeplessness (both risk factor And symptom, I’m told)? Is it psychopathology, Its language of prodding, Its neurotic gathering In neat, convenient piles, That makes me so unhealthy? After the letter and staring Out the window for hours, how Is a lone fawn who wanders through Falling snow, to me, A sign from the universe? The lover would later say: Gather your own life. You are a child. I am unimpressed With the fondling Of my body’s perimeter— Swift up the fat Of the thighs, a touch Of the buttocks, the hips Then the flank, a brush Through raised hair Of the arms; socks, shoes, Watch, wallet, keys, The bottle of pills Robbed from me; The lover’s quick check-ins; Absence of etiology. —

Edward Sambrano III is from San Antonio, Texas, and currently lives and works in the Washington, D.C., area. A poetry reader for Flypaper Lit, his recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Salamander Magazine, DIAGRAM, and Murmur, among other publications. Follow him on Twitter: @SambranoPoet

Artwork by: Pablo Martinez  
poetry

Etiology

by Edward Sambrano III

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