The rest is future

Maybe it was

my mother’s body

on the floor

like the beginning of a garden

with gnarled roses

in search of sunlight.

Maybe it was

the white foam

around her purple lips

like the end of a shoreline

mauled by tide

in search of rest.

Maybe it was

my best friend’s body

on a stretcher

like the beginning of a promise

with severed teeth

in search of truth.

Maybe it was

the blood

falling from his nose

like the end of a river

sucked by drought

in search of rest.

Maybe it was

my corpse

on the verge of living

like the edge of an orchestra

with silence

in search of roar.

Maybe it was

the noise in my gullet—

unswallowed, choking—

like the start of a storm,

heavy and shy,

in search of rest.

-Iris