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Apr 222013
 

by Andres Montoya

 

O peach,

open your meat

 

and together we’ll be a song.

 

Peach, be soft and weep gently

 

sweetly

over the valleys of my tongue

 

your red-brown heart is a song

 

your skin is bitter like suffering

 

and your breath

soft and orange

 

like a child dancing

 

giggling at the wonderful

stomp of his feet.

 

this is about death

about the skin’s way of wrinkling

a young man.

 

***

 

this is about slaughter

about pigs finding

their pit and a man

with a knife in his hand

 

mariachis moan

into the evening

and children are laughing,

running around the chairs of the old,

old ways.

 

***

come and gather

my eyeballs

like fruit

from a tree

and see

the other cheek of the world.

 

***

 

today I forget what poetry

is supposed to do.

 

I have nothing left

to retreat to.

 

***

 

as a child

I was a flower

dancing for my pueblo.

 

this was long ago

when siete lenguas

was a cumbia

 

 

***

 

I am not afraid to be wounded by you, sweet singing birds.

 

I am afraid only of the lukewarm silence

slicing the ear drum.

 

***

 

I see too many writers afraid of their vision, afraid to admit their hope

 

***

 

Come, let us find

the canal’s cold kiss,

 

honey’s sting

to the tongue.