Because we are unbearable. Because in German welt means world. Because we discovered objects and infinitum. Because squares were homes we couldn’t leave. Because we ran forwardly toward the future. Because the maps were gentle with us. Because we sewed an island back together and lived on it for years. Because we carried the asters with us through time. Because we consented to longing and put history in a separate jar. Because the buckets were empty and pain, robust. Because it is a long way back to tender. Because our eyes lit up when they said disgrace. Because we discovered lowliness in the garden. Because it was a pretty rip in the earth. Because we climbed to the rooftop and thought it could hold our weight. Because the law says everything is in conflict. Because any day now the windmill could sharpen our needs. Because the world is a violent object. Because we slung along the plural of love in our jeans. Because we knew it would be unbearable. Because we discovered time and ran backwardly through the asters. Because our homes were gentle and could hold our weight. Because the objects were empty and infinitum, robust. Because we consented to disgrace. Because pain is separate from history and the world is lit up. Because all law is thoughtless. Because any day now we could be the lowliest in the garden. Because we slung along the past in our jeans. Because the plural of love is an island. Because we couldn’t leave. Because they whispered welt, welt. Because arranging the future is violence.
85 The Paris-American
Kimberly Grey is a Wallace Stegner Fellow in Poetry at Stanford University. Her work has appeared or will appear in Tin House, A Public Space, Gulf Coast, The Southern Review, Boston Review, TriQuarterly, and elsewhere. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. (www.kimberlyMgrey.com)