A man who drinks between my long white columns
tastes history: the first time I touched my breasts,
then below, when I changed into an ocean from a dam—
my belly a sculptor of people, fed by the milk-springs
of my mountains. The smell of coins mixed with something
sweet, like corn, metallic savory of the hard youth I lived
while washing my stained underwear in a bucket on the street
—hanging on lines that rocked above my head like a nursery.
The coloring both lightest pink and hardest rose, freckled
where women of my family have freckles. The shade matching
the sort of my lips. When my mouth is dry, I too am
elsewhere. How about the shape—the suckle, the cinch, the prissy,
pretentious and shy until held by the eyes. Soft
as the bottom of fruit, bruises; hairs like the hairs inside a bite
of mango. A man who places his ear on me hears the roar
of his blood surging through him. His tongue speaks
until my own speaks the same cooing language.
We must enact what it means to live off one another.
Twenty-nine baldheaded babies face inwards,
making a circle. One gazes into its right corner.
Another, whose skin is pink albacore, stares
towards its bottom left, or my cousin tells me,
where we look when we lie. My cousin fears
she won’t find her husband single. We drink
hot cocoa, examining the pretty girls that walk by.
I say, Who cares? Laughing, my cousin says,
All my life, I’ve felt envy. She finishes her cup.
You can tell a lot about a country from its art.
Do Americans sculpt weeping heads? Looking up,
I’d never seen wrinkles carved into baby skin.
I wonder how I’ve gotten away with anything.
I’m curious about writers and technology—podcasts, storyboards, films, cross-genre features telling stories audibly, visually. Rather than shirk from social media and entrap ourselves in the traditional definition of publishing and literature, we have the option of wielding what is available to our generation. If we’ve learned anything with the Internet, it’s that people need stories; that won’t change. The way we explore literature, hopefully, adapts and transforms while the ardor and craft remains.
Image modified from © Senia L. via Creative Commons