From White on White
XXX
It burns you, the memory of the night before
we spoke, burns you, the salt
of the mouth which bit
before it kissed.
You don’t have room to die
with the morning, you only have a hole
in which to hide your tears,
a dry branch for chasing off the flies.
The soul’s task is to unlearn
animals are the great marvel,
no memory of having been brother
to the morning star.
Perhaps already quenched or crumbling to dark.
Eugenio De Andrade
Indigo Pearls
The memory of the night we
spoke burns you, the salt of my
mouth which bit before it kissed,
your glare rocking the tables,
drawing the lines of my mouth
over the folds of the night. You
wanted to kiss, the night we
shared the ocean’s mouth, its
polished pearl. But when you
kissed, it was as if you tore at
me, hungry for something
I couldn’t give.
Who wouldn’t want to keep such blooming buried inside?
Brandy Adams
I revised with suggestions in mind.
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