Limbo


1. Earth and Air

You tell me about butterflies
on a tree in Brazil, 
so many they look like leaves, 
and this one like a bee, 
and that one like its cousin. 
With patterns copied from nature
they cry out to their own
and scare off the others. 
What are those patches on your skin? 
Cactus, mango, pomegranate, 
when you hover over me, 
the butterflies lose their leaves, 
trees shake their wings, 
your skin heals smooth as a tabletop.
 

2. Fire

Sleeping woman
tied to my bed 
dreams about the carnival. 
People with wings of birds
samba in the streets. 
Those who don’t have feathers
parade their sex. 
Blond hair   black hair
black hair   blond hair, 
men with ropes and men with harps, 
men with heads and men with hearts. 

 

3. Water

There is nothing between us
but ocean: 
what’s water to us. 
In the photograph
you are about to throw your arm around me. 
A hand moves toward my shoulder
and never lands. 

Next - Rebecca Loudon

Contents - Reader

Contributors
Current Issue - Blue Fifth Reader
Home

---

---