Who Makes Love to Us After We Die

I turn on the radio and hear horses, girls becoming women after tragedy. Talk about dreams! His heart was covered in a thin shell the color of the moon, and when touched, I’d grow old. The best movies have a philosophy, Dorothy, after being subjected to witch-on-girl violence, is rescued. Someone hung himself on that set, a man, who loved, but couldn’t have a certain woman. Management said it was a bird. The best movies begin with an encounter and end with someone setting someone free. In Coppola’s version of Dracula my favorite scene is when the camera chases two women through a garden and watches them kiss. I made love to a man who asked, after many years, for me to choke him, so that later, cleaning a kitchen cabinet, I read a recipe he’d written into wood, and I had a hard time believing him.

More by Diana Marie Delgado

Bridge Called Water

I wrote hard
on paper
 
at the bottom
of a pool
 
near a canyon
where the stars
 
slid onto their bellies
like fish
 
I wrote:
 
     	…
 
I went through
the mountain
 
through the leaves
of La Puente
 
to see the moon
but it was too late
 
too long ago
to walk on glass.
 
    	…
 
Near those years
when the house fell on me
 
my father told me
draw mom
 
in bed with
another man—
 
         	…
 
From a plum tree
 
the sound of branches
fall like fruit
 
I’m older
no longer afraid
 
my voice like water
pulled from the well

where the wind had been buried
where someone was always

running into my room
asking, what’s wrong?

Related Poems

When I Was a Glacier

That Bruegel painting
of hunters returning
in winter, the filmmakers
go nuts for it. A sad rabbit
on a stick & more. It’s like
really in there, tonally—
a male, disappointed
group trudge towards
a more lighthearted
communal flurry, women
and children full of fire
upholding weird roofs
doing the real work.

A moment ago I moved
something (not particularly
large) to the other side
of the table and felt
so old and immense
and in control. Like a truck
crunching on its path.
I project white onto the
floorboards. And isn’t
this music from that ballet
that always makes us?
Indistinguishable
from a folktale-pink shock

of pure quartz through the wall.
Give me one irregular mark
for my thigh to pit the year
against. 16th century sound
gets all over the daybed
and you relocate your teeth
to the opposite nipple.
My thought in that moment
it’s a brutal cave.
Brightest bird, tailfeather,
increasing gray line, fail me
my distant mountain.