Moments of transient beauty.
The Things We Draw on Maps
There are men who write
where men don’t speak
which overthrow bloodthirsty kings
business men who give undeserved gifts
music in the middle of a battlefield
strawberries in the woods
people who meet & understand each other
amazing triumphs of love with no strings attached
There are small precarious paradises
along the path we walk
on the shore of a wild monstrous sea
where it smells like grilled fish
& festive laughter
where we play without rules and balance
in unison on large red hammocks
where we embrace & lose track of time.
Where we forget with cheerful vehemence
He offered me
a handmade box
with floral motifs
and voodoo pins
inside, four tiny children
nailed to my body.
He said: I’m yours
even if required to prick
the bolt between my legs
and that viscera, the heart.
Pessimistic butterflies flew.
I heard their flapping
in the shadows. The snap
of a nonexistent tongue.
A bird lands on my garden.
I know it’s thanks to the discontinuous
pixel movements of its brief
leaps on the grass.
It rummages for supplies
with its childlike beak
between the tiny leaves
on the ground.
The grass, I tell myself, the grass
is where the food is hidden.
I’m about to decipher this mystery,
it’s like the poetic breath that precedes it.
Always something violent, the breeze
or the very sensitivity of the hatchling sensing
my garden is a non-garden
a reduced green apparition
in the courtyard of the house.
When just like that, the bird
flits― drawing pixels like it arrived,
Then the house faces
the reality of its troublesome stay.
The common everyday trappings
as if the bird’s ephemeral presence
provided them with fleeting certainties
and endless senses.