Broken Thought-Machine

by Christos Kalli

Alice Oswald, "Flies"

February snow makes the city
in the corner of her eye

white. Eavesdropped on a season
and heard my Grandmother

speak in the voice of a wind
chime. Stepped on salt

and laced the sidewalk. Cold
is when five fingers play

in a pocket like children.
All of my friends have fallen

in love and survived.
Must be nice to be nothing

with someone you love.
To drop your snow globe

and leave a blank page
on the sidewalk. I want

to shake the sunshine
away. I want to know more

about the hyenas circling
the streetlamp’s light. Night

is not the only dark thing
we know nothing about.

Even without heels
it looks about to fall

out of the sky. Moon
the red of a stop sign.

One day I will break
night’s necklace

and not chase the portions
of murk rolling away.

I want to cage the steam
of your cinnamon tea

in my palms and let it
run without a leash

in our backyard. Moon
stop measuring the pulse

of that cloud. You know that
mid-measurement one is still pale

and the other one is still.
So I am feeding you spoons

full of pearls to turn you
into a jewellery box. I turn

you into a carton of milk instead
and drink because every day

is thirst day. Every crater
is a fingerprint I think.

I think bodies are all teeth.
You sink yours in mine and eat.

Christos Kalli, born in Larnaca, Cyprus, is currently studying for his undergraduate degree in English Literature at the University of Glasgow. His poetry has been translated into French, shortlisted for the Jane Martin Poetry Prize, and his INT. NIGHT was a finalist for the Sutra Press Chapbook Contest. His work can be found and is forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry, The Adroit Journal, The Los Angeles Review, the minnesota review, [PANK], Barely South Review, and Dunes Review, among others. He is a poetry reader for The Adroit Journal. Visit him at christoskalli.com