ARIA #1

Filled with fish and starry shock,
enmity, and brine in spectacular operatic
pallor, I bring you pinecones
made for shelter, turn zealots from the balconies
in large unexpected droves
falling palms, bougainvilleas, droughts
like those that first lavished our irrupteous
volcanic body in deep-green irradiations,
blunt masculine fields, voluble produce
melon stripes and blight. We regret to tell
the womb and its instantiating purview,
mold that bridges me from you
and this world from the catapulted next:
I like the color of sea sponge,
I like your envy,
am everyone, an architect,
irascible like the veins of every palm, zealots
still falling from the buildings in a soft,
inconsequential, decrescendoed
brush—my bed, my hands,
you and the prescient stars we
die into.

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first published in La Lancha (New Mundo)

Read more here

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By Susana Plotts-Pineda 👍