Old friend, in countless hours have I resorted to caressing the finesse of your swan neck,
Pleased in your own beauty,
You smile coquettishly to anyone listening to our love.
Your butterfly kisses taste as the winded laughter of children,
Defying gravity the way prepubescence ignores the passage of time,
Never wanting to go home.
Adventurous in the hands of many,
Gypsy voice with arabesque blood,
Allow your sterile, maternal curves to dance— dark skin from work under the sun of my desires,
The moons of my disdain—
To your sonorous rhythms and heal my stone heart;
Your nickel-plated steel braids to rope it and teach it to be one of flesh.
Clothe my tremulous memories with a sound that knows not of notes, scales, or music;
Only the melodies resounding asphyxiated in a hollow full of want.
Mar your fingerprints on my fingertips,
So that I may never forget our forlorn.
How we cry in a cherubic language spoken by angels behind God’s back,
In the hidden corners of Heaven.
Weep, my love, for the memory of your arboreal body,
Which, still clinging to trampled roots, played music with the wind
Made of wordless songs, strumming your leaves against the lonely dirt road.
The dusty halo that consigns your slow, atonal demise from the world of sound;
Abandoned, naked, sitting quietly on a lap tired of silence,
Burying your broad shoulders in a chest full of inconsolable, consonant misgivings.
Scarred and varnished to a body unlike your own,
One that’s becoming, yet horrendous compared to the virgin mother you once were:
Bearing fruit from your leafy bosom.
Outstretching your countless arms and fingers to the sun,
A light that never forgave your adventuresome transgression,
When you took the shade from her beloved earth,
And left a wound, a stump to seat those persecuted by heat, and a mind burdened with thoughts.