Mariana Ruiz-Firmat

(Box Poem)

Lime and Rosemary

The west bend twists into bruises kissing the inside of his thigh;    this love is wicked
A presence floats across the lawn toward me The dog barks as if in hysterics chewing a log
He pretends to be the alpha male       tries out every man in the room
I've been hiding beneath the floor boards     below the oak knotch
my eye is loosely jostling around     searching for the sign
A quickly escaping sunstroke           giving way to the thickened undercurrent of each snow flurry
removing our legs as if beneath us and away         
an arm builds a plank, constructs an extension to the weave along the trellis
it becomes a part of this wood                skin tans over leather loosens itself
into the burnt oak of these woods    raisins grow       from each lobe you reach up
and pick every fruit         peel their sickness from the underside skin
               A cellar where bodies are hidden in Mannaty
you have you're finger in the pulse of carrots, squash, sweet potatoes
how old were you when he began to fade?
first the music through a lonely shadow                 then the prints of both fingers
              formerly pressed
on the inside of a globe as it hangs swimming through green
second he leans behind a trace of tobacco                 crumbs spill into white liner
caress a made up name a new name       response to cuffs pressed lightly on the bone
the coffee sound itself       rewinds to previous mornings
dark with two tabs and a bleaching            the heart throbs public
after he leaves with his knit kisses

 

 

 

Nothing new 

 i must confess
that if i were to lift up
removing every forgivable crime
against love            the man
and the animals innocent
coming from small barrels
in Appalachia      every blue-hilled song
every man would be recorded
in short square inch books
but this is all in the past
when i am not spared
when all that is left
will recite        syllabic memories
lifting off the folds of an onion
carefully engraved
with the flat edge
of a bamboo knife
all language         could carry few pleas
and a redemptive parlay
these words   bare
the moment 20, May 1541

 

 

 

BURNT YELLOWSTONE FOR LUCIELLE

 

a sloshing cup

curdled sun          dial
   turned
                fired fugues

those white-bellies

 trade maps

                  phantom soft

leaf papers suction

breathy clouds

thicken then smear

 

 

 

 

 

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