It’s true
that I sent my heart
to the bottom of the ocean.
There it glows
looking with wet bewilderment
up at the translucent
verbosity of jewel-like
life.
Unmovable,
it sighs after
liquid movement.

It’s true that I miss
our sex
the way it felt
like eggs being laid
into the warm and downy
nest.

The stationary
innocence of morning.

Duty is like
the wings of a butterfly,
velvety with beauty
and chafing with
fleetingness.

Los Angeles in the rain
turns me on,
dreaming of my professors,
waking up alone
to learn things
from videos on my phone.

It’s true
that I am at the bottom
of the ocean.

Leila Bloomingdale is a Palestinian-American poet living in California. She enjoys reading Victorian literature and spending time with her cat, Mochi. 

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