Visitor Ghazal – by Megan Cartwright
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY
In its practised temperance the monks’ routine compels sleep –
yet in this land I have no language; I cannot spell sleep.
Outsider – conspicuous. I imitate reverence.
I count sheep. In the dark my heart pounds like a death knell: sleep.
Tuesday’s dawn breaks my heart, the veins of morning swollen pink,
bloodshot proof that night and day are inescapable – sleep.
Strange days. Scuttling sightseers, we configure in shoals,
We are pilgrims mouthing platitudes while citadels sleep.
The masks worn at mealtimes are needless – we censor ourselves.
Meditation makes manifest the truths that repel sleep.
No rest among carved gods and dead-eyed carp. Lotus plants lay
their slender necks atop my Writer’s block and dispel sleep.
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Image: Duong Ngan - Unsplash
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