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.