I, as you, am composed of songs
understand intuitively the flits of butterflies
and how they take to flowers
and why dresses, above the knee or below
lift me upward gaily.
I was born to make things, create
and hold them, tightly and loosely
for seconds and forever
and to never let them go
as long as they play inside me
or you grace me with one of your own.
Song, draft 1
a semi-reply to “Fabrications - Making oneself up in lies” on Amongthedays
-Santiago
Summer, brilliant at the door
wide, sweet shawl, green cicada
bird calls, wild by the feeder
and showers glisten on the rocks
and Woolf, hillocks, hammock, sea
and rapture
and nothing breaks
just the sun’s spine on yours
just laughter with long teeth.
-Santiago
Draft 1, ARR
(Source: vanished)
I am the youngest of only four guests at a seaside bed and breakfast. The sea. The duplicitous sea. Every morning she moves a little closer to my window as if she knows I sometimes get so sad that I am willing to be swallowed whole. By her, a lake, a river, even a puddle of rain. I still cannot tell you what I am doing here. The other women, the guests, ask every day. Can they tell I am lost? I have been missing of myself for a while. That girl whose throat I kissed on a grey afternoon was merely another body to hold, an anchor. She could not stand to love me; I tried to tell her, I tried to explain. She was looking for someone to love. She was sweet, good, or striving to be. I was not worthy. Before the sun leaves work I will throw my arms around the sea and we will talk about what it means to be lonely. And while I imagine myself sailing away on one of the boats drifting like a shutter down her crooked spine, the sea will open her mouth.
Bianca Stewart
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
When I Am Among Trees
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
— Mary Oliver, in Thirst
Lina Maria, my wife.
A tall rectangular tin
red Lazzaroni Ameretto
1851
and April snow
the blinds drawn open
and his back is to you
her back is to you.
The green blades of your hope
burrow themselves inside their
have-too-long-been-waiting
shelter in the dead grasses
where you and your lover
left promises and play aside.
So many have set out two glasses
or more, have set out the honey
and the leaven bites
and poured everything sweet
from their hearts
but he sent his back to you,
and she set her back to you.
A tall rectangular red tin
Lazzaroni Amaretto, empty
as the house, these hearts,
hollow, authentic, 24% alcohol.
We are ready to imported.
-Santiago
