Viva Gitano, you say, Living Gypsy, and the taste
of Turkish coffee has never been so strong, cups boiling
as our fledgling necks stretch
over the edge. Pájarita, the roof will always be hot.
Beneath our spitting tongues streetlights hum
with dog throats, out-of tune instruments barking
birds that burst rainbow sand, a city where everything
is music. Somewhere, a bottle breaks,
and the lawn chair acrobats roll
their smokesweatsalt into papers so thin they could be dying
leaves. The only tree in our concrete
hookah camp is a browning hand, over-ripe thumbs uncurling
like the fist of God. Rumi sang about a religion
my parents didn’t belong to, and I swallowed
his magic lanterns until fireflies
rattled my wrists, bones blooming not with seasonal
bulbs but with a single banana tree whose undying
leaves were never smoked. A yellow page swooshed
me to the rooftop, attic stairs rotting to New England
mulch, a front porch. Ivy League graffiti scrawled
Change; I memorized which way was East.
Dog throats sing without mouths, walking
flutes puffing musicartphilosophies that rise
over the rooftops, a grape leaf unfolding. You give
me a piece of paper: El Cambio:
As I wrote this sentence, someone threw a chair
into the street.
***
So so wonderful! I would buy your book of poems. And keep it next to the few other books I have as life staples.
ReplyDeletei would love my poetry to be a Morgan coffee table staple. :) We should trade writing soon!
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