Aida Muratoglu

Another Litany, this one for lost objects

My mother's leather wallet she gave me when I was 16, 
its edges blurred, insides soft, a perfect clasp. 

Too many excellent T-shirts to count. 

ooops I’m waxing material again 

So this object is the love we had, cradled between 
your wide boobs and my smaller ones, 
the new wood under our butts leaving 
thin, woodcut shaped scars. 
You counting the mosquito bites the next day 
me thinking how gay it was for us to fuck in the apple orchard 
Eve and Eve, snakes whirring around us, 
oblivious to the rushing of fingers in fingers in insides 
waving, too, at the early stars

link to video

Aida Muratoglu is a poet living in Brooklyn, NY, whose poetry and criticism have been published in Hot Pink Mag, the Critical Flame, and pan-pan press.