Daniel Coudriet



Raising miniature pigs the size of our hands,

one of them falling in love with your foot,

mistaking it a pig.  This is the stuff of sad novels,

ones full of sentences with beginnings

and endings, but where is the accordion music

coming from.  Where are the villages

in your eyelashes.  The pig kneeling before us

makes the field that much less likely

to crease suddenly and fold in upon itself,

those other two behind us and already we thank

your mother for boxing the china, indexing carefully

the pieces.  The coquelera stained rich brown

with bagnacauda.  We wanted to bathe the pigs there,

but we would lose them all to that surface.

The family gathering eyelashes for the feast.










The sky is drunk.

It wants to breathe on us.

The clouds the hands of late phonecalls

my fingers pastry paper

folds into pink gladioli birthmarking my tongue.

In a green night, I could be your bootprints in the silt

of Río de la Plata.  A procession

of deflated parade balloons

I’ve named my face after

the river’s enormous pregnancy opening to swallow us.

New mornings the same ripe bedrooms

like closed mouths hanging over the street.

I have the wrong hands.

Río de la Plata has its fingers down your pants.

The hidden ramps bringing out trafficlights, meats grilled

at every corner.  Trees spilling themselves to neon.

I would convince them it is a marvelous machine

that helps raindrops search for us.

How it is to drink this light a child falling

into a bedframe, dried dried blood and eyes.

You should not marry a river.

Because you will have too many faces inside you,

you will never.

They’d beat me.

I can feel this already.









Citas con transeúntes


Each footstep a given birth

a dry scarf knitting itself corners.

They’ve ground far off rocks to mist

for us to stand on.  I’ve no explanation

for why wet leaves are not our shoes

or why we don’t gather them

as envelopes for our documents.

The tree is a face licking me

so that all the café’s patiotables

are uneven.  I still think of the bricks

with open mouths.  Taxis give birth

noisily.  Anything about a train

the carfuls of commuters having sex

with each other.  Headlights cluster

as raindrops being swallowed, and pause.

Each passing hand adjusting your scarf

moments a different family you might’ve

tucked in, kissed lightly.  Wandered.









Por qué parque porque



The day the creek began flowing backwards

& immediately the schoolchildren gravitated

into herds.  They carved enormous questions

from the lard of sleeping animals, dropping

them over everyone.  It was so beautiful & warm

no one noticed the paint covering their pores.

Open mouths crept closer to one another like bruises

flowing in different directions.  “We’re too naked

to be here,” someone shouted, waking the animals

thinner, with clumpier hair, “I can’t tell if you’re

dancing.”  Was it her peatonal strides, tight

straps rubbing collarbones, bloodoranges

in a burlap sack swinging against her hip?

Everyone had a hard time not thinking about her.

“There is a very small storm happening millimeters

from my face,” she whispered.  I wanted to ask

something about the turbulence for her travelers.









I Can't Tell If You're Dancing


We collapse into water like a restaurant,

I stand up and cannot swim & see you after


& when did pavement become projectorlight.

I’m dangling a lightbulb fixture.


Everything a family says is sharp.


I loosen my ears until the sound flattens, glances drain

off me as I approach you.


Where is the laughter the children want to hold?

I cannot find the notes you crumpled on the typewriter.


I’m whispering outside a bolted gate a lamp

prisms of waterdroplets we discovered a proud she.


Did I give birth to you?


The pomegranate we arrive into

the tilted houses & tin night

there are small pianos on the sides of your head.


I feel a ridiculous city sitting beside me.