Waiting Ghazal by Asa Drake
Once, you told me about two kinds of time.
Consecutive time which extends a grievance and concurrent time which saves time.
Today I planted beans
as a way of waiting for something else, concurrent time.
Wait for enough things at the same time,
and every action becomes an effect.
Taking off a necklace. Watching a YouTube video on car repair. Drinking tea with jam we made this spring, when you told me that I just need a little more time.
I'm embarrassed to tell you about completely ordinary days. Layering jasmine flowers on a bed of oil, curing tomatoes for a salad, baking perfectly square loaves of time.
You taught me the universe has no edge, just a soft horizon,
like a bed ruffle. I was young and unforgivable, how I never visited while you served time.
You explained endlessness while holding a throw pillow, saying, This is not a model for the universe. Promise, forgiveness, punishment: words I try not to say in relation to time.
I no longer tell you I must lean over the abyss to feel awe.
It is August. I am full of anticipation.
Asa Drake is a Filipina/white poet in Central Florida. She is the author of Maybe the Body (Tin House, 2026) and Beauty Talk (Noemi Press, 2026), winner of the 2024 Noemi Press Book Award. Her chapbook, One Way to Listen (Gold Line Press), is the winner of a 2023 Florida Book Award. A National Poetry Series finalist, she is the recipient of fellowships and awards from the 92Y Discovery Poetry Contest, Storyknife, Sundress Publications, Tin House and Idyllwild Arts. Her poems can be found on The Slowdown Podcast, The American Poetry Review, and Poetry Daily.
