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| 'The Belated Witch’, Luis
Ricardo Falero |
organ and limb donor
pantoum
“questa ammaliatrice
dentro di vento ,
stagioni e poesie,
cavalcar sussurri
meteorologico
e desiderio,
lei corpo e anima,
fare misurare
quanto spazio
abbiamo bisogno
di del avere coraggio
di incontrare
quello che era
tra di noi”
what she wanted
said to me
steal more
everything
what I got my hands on
my tooth and nail
my bites, cohesions
and viscosity
more words
under the southerlies
riddled scent
peddled me
her wings
her allure
her fall
the hinges
on her chaos
my dizzying wades
and intoxications
into where I last remembered
with some vague exactness
that I previously recalled
carrying her possible
everywhere
her bed chamber
was cloaked
in black light
bright glow
I had to swear magic off
when she walked by me
a fit rage velvet
sculpted in yoga pants
as she danced
she gave in to
lucid movement
until she begged me
to find
her soul inside
the channeled
Russian roulette
of never ending
surrender and
forgiveness
her eyes played
she said
time is not to be
the only thing
that carves marks
onto our souls
while we breathe
by calendars
in lust
in love
in league
with thoughts
between divinity
and sundry
she said to want
is assuredly
a divine thing
to paint in caves
to know what water sings
running horizon to horizon
is to know circular motion
a devotion to cycles
to know where
you are mostly cloudy
to stop counting
by indiscriminate swell
to keep tinkering with chemistries
to finally trust your nose
she said we were born expressive
meant to lent portal
courted pleasures
we would always be
pooling our temporary
into heavens and hells
she said this is part melody
and part blessed
midnight knows best
slow jazz drifting
now come spoon me
out this window, she said
we are born ready
to take liberties
by crawled knees
with each other
maid, maiden, crone
honed, horned, throne
oscillate to back beat
tongued clay river slung
we as the sea
are hungry to see
valley after valley and
mountain after mountain
every seed, leaf and tree
we are evaporative
and jubilant
we name things
by bump and grind
mud clung nails
palmed sates
and uncertainties
we choose, however
to remain lost
in this language
these sounds
and smells
we make
remembering
selfish is art
we say
every poem
every form
and song
is another chance
at rain
EJR ©
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