by Paul Lobo Portuges
|Above early morning reed tops tiptoe children peer at my long black beard of encouraging thought. Hard work Aztlan songs drift down the crying shore. All day hard luck women pound the long week’s laundry just below low flying purple dragonflies over the virgin field of weed covered graves. Half naked boys smack muddy holy water for fat frogs.In the bitter distance government guns crack and bring everyday everyone to a few seconds still. Sky gazing marguerites wave from the altar bright ridge overlooking the lake of the twelve apostles. Pale deer drink the holy water of slow motion birds crossing the talking waters. Tired living years of race wars I wait for the bride of you in the magenta evening pencil in hand worry watching breaking twilight fade off tuberoses.
I dream you bend your bodyline over the floating moon and drink its cool burning circle. My shadow of manly man folds across your silvered back lust wet with your take me theme of future children golden years and mingled dust. Rivers of blood lift our bones into ritual dance over the witnessing earth. A dark flight of jungle sound passes through our mouth of dreams. We cling together at the foot of a terraced mountain with skeletons of the sleeping wind.
Hot Indian summer late night calls from your oiled jasmine thigh cloud of stark wildness. Red lights blink above the white misty shore our gentle hiss of hips and finally sleeping like cloud warriors.
staring at Lake Atitlan