Maybe you've noticed by now, dear reader, this story lacks a single point of view:
esta hombre sabe demasiado . . . por que? quien sabe? . . . considerate afortunado . . .
Bedroll tucked under one arm, I carried it everywhere.
Owl looked under its lids to see me coming. If I had wings would I fly?
I sang Easy Rider, Give me surcease from this pain. If I could find pain’s sound
that’s all I would hear, you can’t let pain take you over. That way lies ruin.
She was sure she loved me but did not know why for fifty years,
the time she took to fall out of fear and begin. She creams her Black Irish skin
emerging from the lake. Her skin is the color of black olives. She kisses me
before telling me she fears one of us may soon go. She wants to die
no more than I, some things you can do nothing about.
The wilderness she fears, says when I’m gone where in Hell will Heaven be . . .
Now when the wind comes up, she makes me a bed to couple with her own.
The night the rain came through the open sliding glass doors in Oahu
she said I stayed too long inside her, seven years ago aloft in Honolulu’s
Pink Palace, where the women once strolled the lobby and made love
when they fucked and imitated happiness when they thought of fear.
Bodies once rubbed each other for fire. Must you be a brujo to love a bruja?
(14, 20-21 April 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander