Bird Eating Bird_ Poems - Kristin Naca [7]
of her hands’
heat until gloves
gone perfectly cool
harden in place.
REVENANT GLADNESS
—for Karina
The world has sallied forth. Unmeasured, fumigated with acumen,
swearing I heard it. I heard it as branch hears its own knobs bear wind, and with it…
And I saw your eyes climb. Them and your own limbs needle spaces
laid bare in trees’ winter’s leaf drift, into their passages, little bony cups
the canaling of your ears produce their own echo, What was, is, will be
Worn against the newest weather? In the newest city you return to?
Its eloquence forced upon us the way the air frequents the prongs of
a feather, to underscore as frugal, unspeakable knowledge—how I ask (hardly knowing you),
Darling, when you name an unbearable truth, what do you find yourself
undernaming?
A shiver of false fire, the livery of a place setting beside bowls
of swollen porcelain, justness, air inside our lungs
warmed us stupidly, and the needles lay about bored by hearts gauged to
get stuck against each other needlelessly. Ay que naca,
you say when I ask you, What is the translation for “sin needles” (adverbio)?
On the floor and on the pillows, your name was like something laid before a doorway a prelude to travel, rose petals, nickels, grains of rice
that bloat swallows’ bellies—too full and too, overflowingly
There also against diminishment. These days diminishment and appearance
aren’t opposites—I remind—as much as they are opponents (distant, enemy cousins arriving at bookends of a family barbecue).
And I said it to tear the firmament freshly, like stars plucked from constellations
to bring her eyes’ confusion over forgetting; your top lip against your bottom
one in opposing operations. No, not absolutely unlike when words
turn against their truths. The phases of the moon molt the shells off
the crab’s back, wax and wane him till he’s limp-spined, his all-jelly insides
like traitors. Gaze and know my face before waking ruins the fog of my actual dream-dusted face!
Come back to the sunshine now rambling
Over the occasion like a mute apology for coming home exactly as I’d promised,
gripping green-shooted, leafyparts of beets I’d promised, purple knotted artery
talking from my fists. You’re on my lap, pounding my chest,
asking for forgiveness for accepting the part of lover who wants me, her, her love
to keep coming back in the first place.
We are near each other is what we say, and what you know I promise to feel
In the gathered promise of a girl who swirls her coffee before she drinks it,
who dives into a pool eyes open, first,
Who remembers the city as a transparent bride,
Her long hand reaching out of danger to find refuge in your bridle of echoey, black hair.
CORAZÓN COMO UN RELOJ
Los surcos en el sofá azul hacen tic tac al tiempo de las reverberaciones de sus caderas.
Los puntos en el techo de yeso esperan, pacientes como trampas para osos.
En la sala, el calor se hace penachos desde las costillas del radiador.
Afuera, ella se escucha mientras que se viene. Los granos brilliantes de arena, paso a paso, se suben por a sus pies.
Cuando ella está relajada, el techo hace clic. Cada minuto, se sueltan los muelles.
Revuelve su cara de la cuchara por su taza de café, y el poste se calienta, luego le calienta la mano.
Bajo los colmillos del techo. Bajo el tejado. Bajo las techumbres arcillosas que la abruman, ladrillos rojos y pesados.
La cuchara timbra en la porcelana como timbra el calor en los nudillos del radiador.
Intenta apagarlo, pero no se mueve el mecanismo. La juntura brilla con una patina azul de musgo.
Afuera, una estrella fugaz graba surcos azules por el canto del cielo.
Las válvulas resuenan con el tintinear de los gases calurosos por los escapes.
Una vez, esperó a unas caderas para calentar los cojines a su lado. Ahora, ella arde. Ahora, se hincha.
En la cara del reloj, una mano da vueltas mientras—como si bebiera lengüetadas—la otra mano tiembla inmóvil.
Una pastilla fría y blanca para cuando se hincha el corazón.
Bajo el cielo azul azul.