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BARBARA JANE REYES |
in the city, she collects confession
how a benefit is not the same as an avoidance of repercussion.
how i never learned to apply
eyeshadow properly.
how this all of a sudden concerns me.
how the arrangement of stone brings bodies to
convergence.
how architecture accommodates sunlight.
sculpture gardens, two turntables, and a stack of
vinyl.
my sadistic curiosity to loose a flutter of moths into
glass cages of venus
flytraps and pitcher plants.
to swim in a lake of gold dust, a stone against a
river's rush.
how facts shift with perception.
bottlecap mementos and
shifts in inflection.
semblance of a face in the rust of a tin can.
face that is a crescent moon.
sleep displacing night streaming lilt flutter barrel.
to become salt, to risk dissolution.
to crawl so far into one’s own subjectivity unchecked.
linkages purely associative, acquired from years of
non-speech.
relevance slipping.
work. stilted. onset. recoil.
bring me. finish me.
i used to dream of a child
named diwa, then i dreamt
of a child with no
name.
past
scars
hours on a boat
drums and summer
trouble
“we are made of stars”
feels like a myth i read
once. what i should
have been. quiet. safe.
a girl with
volume control. barely
breathing. amnesiac and
struck mute. dull and
undiscerning. bruised
from so much manhandling.
accustomed to acts of insincerity.
unfinished and insensate.
quality control of uncultured pearls.
weirdly unfamiliar.
in the city, she transcribes a composite of
impossible lovers
do you have the time? see, it’s as simple as this
body’s memory of a
place it once inhabited. you can walk through these
streets with your eyes
closed just as you may remember your tongue mapping the chrysanthemum of my
body. see, it’s as simple as ceasing to speak. see, it’s as simple as
you. here. with me. see, it’s the flesh’s memory of jazz and winter
sunlight, of sharing a cigarette and a cup of coffee in a café with no
name. see, if you really wanted to, you could listen. never mind your
staying.
but do you have the time because all we seem to do is
rush around when all
you’d like to do right now is stop and consider the way your lungs expand
with air. this silence. this
presence. you listen and remember that wisdom
saddens us all and then you start again to rush about —
and forget.
and forget.
and forget.
because it is much easier than the burden of sadness. and you refuse to
allow your body to be memory’s vessel. and so you
refuse to breathe. do
you have the time to allow your lungs to take in sky?
do you have the time because i could use a moment at
the center of your
universe between the cigarette breaks, and the blooming fuchsias, and the
sexual banter, and the editorial deadlines, and the diasporic
discourse, and
the homemade martinis, and the art gallery receptions, and the anti-war
demonstrations, and the production notes, and the ghost stories, and the
words that remain untranslatable, and the suspicion that you are invisible,
and the confirmation that sometimes you are, and the caffeine headaches, and
the paralyzing fear of mediocrity, and the bottles of italian
wine, and the
dinner of lamb and beets, and the laundry that must be done, and the
mandatory travel abroad, and the books that must be read, and the
spider
contusion your car door left on my thigh, and the papers that must be graded
—
and the…
and the…
and the…
so do you have the time to reach into your body and find your heart a murder
of crows, your heart an opening in a barbwire fence, your heart a memory of
snowdrift, your heart an elegy to your former self, your heart a trickster
god in disguise, your heart a freeway offramp, your
heart a scratch in the
vinyl of your favorite slow jam, your heart an empty tank of gasoline, your
heart a postmodern literary masterpiece, your heart mislabeled as a
hollywood blockbuster, your heart a murderer's
insanity plea, your heart an
angel opening his eyes, your heart a thicket of bamboo, your heart a bullet
train, your heart hunted to extinction, your heart a prayer for the
departed, your heart an abstract poem, your heart a string of freshwater
pearls, your heart a broken swingset, your heart a
sticky dive bar in the
bad part of town, your heart a dead language, your heart not a creation
story, your heart the understatement of the year.
do you have the time to heal us both because i am a walking wound. because
you have damaged yourself. because i
awaken and you are a blossom unraveling
at intervals. because the city will do this to you if
you do not take care.
do you have the time to enter, where the viscera most
resembles smoothed
pebbles and spider orchids. deeper still where we
wonder how light
penetrates. deeper still where you begin to understand
that soul does indeed
have substance. deeper still where you know, doubtless,
that our bodies are
golden and made up of stars.
Harana for Eve
This is how it ends —
She is woven in diaphanous veil, in novena, in sampaguita
vine, in riverine
pearl. Her wrists, faint lavender and musk. Morena, unlikely lovely, still
she has learned well, shallow breathing’s an art form affecting swoon;
sometimes not enough air fills her lungs, sometimes she really does swoon.
His serenade’s fine bravado, his voice lifting melodic, he fingers
octavina’s quivering strings; this, her spine in
vibrato.
He calls, beneath wrought-iron balcony, echoing off cobblestone, her name,
his invocation. She emerges, rehearsed, into silvered moonlight, her face a
divine apparition. He calls.
She will let him name her his starlit heaven, his ambrosial rose, his muse,
his smooth-hewn jewel, his seashell dream, his dove. She will let him pour
her tea into scalding porcelain cups and believe for a moment her hands have
known no splinter, blister, nor burn. She will let him set her among his
altar’s moonstone rosaries, santo niño,
sandalwood crucifixion, black
madonna. She will be his
fragrant lamb.
She is the cultured pearl for which his tongue dives, and her seasalt upon
his lips, his vespertine devotion, his
very reason for song.
This is the middle —
Her organza traje de mestiza
butterfly sleeves flit; she is welling desire,
swooning sun and sweat. She is here, solitary, her bloodlet
heart’s wings
cooing singalong radio pop: those who know no love
for him but fill his
space nonetheless, there will come the day when they will fall away. When
they leave, she wills him to feel no sorrow, for she is here. She is here,
wanting to unearth him, wondering if she may be permitted to ask, can he
fathom this welling desire, constant, breathless, distanced.
But ever will someone, something else illuminate the expanse in between;
still, she waits faithful, willing all others to fall away.
She is a soaring songbird, and he would name her sinta,
sparrow, if he could
ever think to measure her wingspan. She is the amber-encased cobalt
dragonfly, and he sees neither its honey nor luster. She is the dawn, though
he wanders midnight streets elsewhere away from her; he greets the
morning
muted, parched. In stillness, she is here.
Had she no voice, still her eyes’ deep sheen of the black virgin, would
ululate, lamenting the ceaselessness of a love her lips have never savored.
And this is the beginning —
She is perched in black silk and leather; tawdry
rocker grrrl inked in blood
and ebony. She curses and she banshee wails; she balls her hands into fists.
He loves her because she’s a brash, whiskey-swilling, crushed pearl of a
monsoon. She whispers susurrus lullaby. She kisses him lipsticked
and
open-mouthed, unabashed as the constant sirens of his city whir past.
She is an anthem of steel-toe boots and pink chocolate stars, edged,
blunted, razored. She is his sustenance; her
laughter’s his thunder, his
thrumming leafstorm.
She swoons to heaving guitar solos and thumping bass; her melody is
disruption of melody. Her chorus a resounding fuck me, love me, devour me,
finish me, in a tangle of tattooed bodies and salt moving to kulintang, to
tenor saxophone, to silver flute and electric bass, to brass agong and
kalimba.
She will christen him, shelter him, as her black sparrows’ wings unfold,
for this lovesong is of her own invention.
Harana for Eve 2
This is the beginning —
She is woven in amber-encased cobalt dragonfly, and he sees virgin. His
starlit seashell dream, his crucifixion, upon fists. He loves her
because.
Whisper susurrus lullaby. Leafstorm.
She love song.
This is the middle —
Her bloodlet love for
tattooed bodies and salt moving him, of her affecting
swoon; will waits faithful, willing all. Think to measure, she fills her
lungs, sometimes she’s his tea into scalding deep sheen of the black
banshee.
She as the constant burn.
She santo niño, sandalwood
butterfly radio pop: those who chocolate star
thunder, his thrumming saxophone wings unfold. For this nonetheless,
there
she is songbird, and he would name in sampaguita an
art form name, his
invocation. Apparition.
Her luster.
She is here.
Girl, inked moonlight, her face a rosary. Leave, she
wills him to curses.
She, his in riverine pearl. Her wrists, torn traje de mestiza. The dawn,
through which he wanders, kulintang tenor and musk.
His muse, his
smooth-hewn jewel, she, soaring elsewhere away crushed pearl monsoon. Off
cobblestone, her pouring desire, heart’s wings cooing singalong
and
leather; tawdry and open-mouthed. Bass, as her black sparrow,
his organza
swooning sun, illuminating the expanse in between. Her brass melodic,
beneath wrought-iron balcony, constant, others falling away. Lips have
perched in black quivering strings; this, her spine altar’s moonstone
tongue his very.
And this is how her laughter’s chorus will be his dive. And she is
breathless, distanced. Guitar solos and a resounding fragrant lamb.
She is the cultured pearl for which her will, her melody is disruption of
melody. Sheltering vine, wanting to unearth him, wondering
this welling
desire, ever. Morena, unlikely lovely. She fingers octavina’s
ambrosial
rose; he greets the never savored, brash, whiskey-swilling her.
Her hands have known welling unabashed, an anthem of swoons
to heaving and
electric sweat.
She is here, solitary, for fathom someone, something else, bass thumping.
She will christen him, breathing’s bravado, his voice lifting.
She is, if he could, stillness, of a love in her vibrato.
He divine heaven set her among his ends —
She wails; she’s razored. She is his sustenance; her seasalt sleeves flit.
She is fuck me.
To silver flute, she emerges, rehearsed, into silvered feeling no sorrow,
still, sparrow, in blood and ebony.
She’s learned well, shallow echoing to let his lips, his vespertine
devotion, muted, parched. Silk into me,
devour me, finish me. A moment will
reason for permission to ask, can he.
She edges, blunted, tangle of sometimes swoon. His serenade’s fine; will
falling.
But ever voice, ululate, lamenting the ceaselessness. Diaphanous has not
enough air porcelain cups and believe for neither morning her eyes’ sirens
of his city whir dove. No splinter, blister, nor knowing, come the day.
She’s steel-toe boots and pink lovesong veil, faint
lavender.
He fills her space, her midnight streets, its own
invention. In novena,
calls.
She will.
She will let her wingspan.
She is honey; her hands kiss him lipsticked.
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