Body of a woman
walking alone in light
wrapped as a tunnel, abstracted
passage of singing souls
orchestral and divine
songs full of hurricanes
collapsing dreams and laments
of old mouths. Memories
of flames fighting twilight
birds, birds that might peck
the first stars. That body,
a frightened statue, traveling
in absent solitude, drunk
on the death dressed in
electric currents and trembling
kisses. She has lost even this
soul clenching for distant
sunsets and half the moon
fallen from that rambling storm
at the feet of the cloudless girl
standing at the crossroads
of nocturnal conflagration.
The horizons undermine her
absence instead of sleeping
beneath her taciturn soul
while she echoes nostalgic
lullabies. In the belfry
of that ravenous mouth
she dares listeners to play
the game that advances memories
from forgotten existences
in a savage, solitary rush.
The loudest of all speaks
her silence. A kiss to seal
melancholy constellations
and elevate them into cultural
collectives, cursed to fade
and harvested by the reaper
of fashion’s evening song.
She shouts into the dark
sea of tangling shadows
of solitude, shining suns
that beg an unfurling
question in Caterpillar-
like refrain…
Who are you? Who are, You?
who…
are…
you…
Are you who?