In my damp inseam, the weather creases low and smooth.
Down the back and underneath the levy of legs. Tender

is the escape of water & salt—I jury to this known monument.
The camera washes the window, pushes the sheer orange

curtain away. In effect, it creates this timeline. That
I am currently a part of, like a lonely spider. It strikes.

There are these exhausting trips from
here to there: wasted time & the feeling
that everything is just the way it’s supposed to be.

You haven’t lived up to anything
and You haven’t lived at all.
Cursing dumb decisions like a plate of bad food

& then suddenly,
the begging silence
of how everything is now,
in this exact moment it appeared to me.

But, it goes cold and hardens.

It’s just a reminder:

every sentence is an ending and it is not.
There’s another sentence expected after it.

on the subway lose control    of the rain     in her hair
by untying the tight pact of her bun

Help     is the new Amen     Amen, I’m drowning
in women who know what they want

you bread the tilapia   hands gloved in powder
while I tell you about the trip home
a woman spilled her groceries

on the platform eight oranges rolled across the dirty floor

I watched her recollect the planets
and knew something

small and bright as a lime    I bent down
Can I amen you?  and after being born
and born again I was born
again—

do you know what I mean, tilapia hands, let me
turn on the faucet    I know the joy

of Marie Curie sleeping with radium
women aren’t lovely   they’re love

we live in the bitchery of honesty
you, you     most especially
murdering lemon

over fish and singing
a dum-dum song about my ass
you, you     magentamouth transfixtress my magnet

those oranges constellated from yellow line to trash can
her fingernails
lurched fuchsia and turquoise
a cigarette parked behind her ear

cigarettes and fruit, what she put in her mouth
we gathered the flock of

at the top of those subway stairs
hugged in white light
a silver-haired woman

dressed to the nines and tens
pulled the leashes
of two saint bernards
mannish with drool
manifested their attention

and mine     a red kerchief’s splash and woo
at her throat
while down below
the stranger awarded me

an orange which I later peeled in one go while the snow ate my clothes like a man

the air smelled floral
like the earth

was ours     and bragging

^{translated from the Portuguese by Patricio Ferrari and Susan Margaret Brown}

I don’t like silent
graveyards. The Greeks
and Romans had,
along the roads,
verses inscribed
on tombstones
to accompany them,
words that so often
showed them proud
of what they had been.
They believed in poetry,
not in death.
 

A consolação da poesia

Não gosto dos silenciosos
cemitérios. Os gregos
e os Romanos tinham
a acompanhá-los,
ao longo das estradas,
uns versos inscritos
na pedra tumular,
que tantas vezes
os expunha como seres
orgulhosos do que tinham sido.
Acreditavam na poesia,
nunca na morte.