issue 24 > poetry > branco

We’re passing through, but in no case
will we forget the dew (her face
moist with light). Our pores ossified
our blood, -- what the earth says--
tar is not my dress of mourning,
but the unbreathable skin of my flesh.
Who now will want her as a bride?
The garlands are covered in dust and the nuptial
march untunes the stars.
A sun made of gasoline rots quickly
in the wrinkles of our summer skin.
You still are laughing through the black cracks
and you allow a glimpse of another destiny
within the tea leaves. Even so your corpse is beautiful
among the flowers of the remnant fields
and the fires that ashen you.
Dew is a gentle word (she tells herself).
Those first hours when the remains lie
invisible you still entrance me like a princess
blossoming an initial erection before the x-ray of the lungs.
Earth, are we crying for ourselves when we die you?






Also by Rosa Alice Branco and translated by Alexis Levitin:

The Death of Angels
The First Stone