This morning I threw wide
that carved door of souvenirs.
The scent of sandal wood
filled the air and missing
you was a stone bruise.
Tonight I will walk down
to the shore, that galaxy
of pearls and tumbling waves
of frothy champagne.
The mangroves are filled with
flickers and blooms and the
sky glimmers with silvery mirth.
I could stay here until Spring among
the honey cake dunes and not think
of you at all.
When I came for you
I was not searching.
Wild and beautiful your
lids heavy with desire
I sipped Santiago raindrops
from your tongue and
salt-rose tears fell from
At the hour of departure my heart
became a dying bird with
wings unfastened and open.
”unfastened and open” from Pablo Neruda’s poem “A Night On the Island”
A Night on the Island
by Pablo Neruda
I have slept with you
and on waking, your mouth,
come from your dream,
gave me the taste of earth,
of sea water, of seaweed,
of the depths of your life,
and I received your kiss
moistened by the dawn
as if it came to me
from the sea that surrounds us.
In the state between sleep and wake
traversing birth and death
there is the faintest hint of earthy candles
macabre dreams interrupted by the
strophe of sonnets, a sensation of
spilling pearls like tiny moons falling
through my open palm.
At the boundaries I find you
not your spirit or rose tinged snow
but flesh and bone.
I am sleeping less now
roused by the wing beats of boreal owls
circling an ancient Cypress,
their knife edge talons entwined in sprays
of silky moss clinging to knotty branches.
Fitful wind gusts burst through barriers of
creaking walls vibrating my hemispheres into
consciousness. A celestial tapestry of recollection
lifts me over the valley to a moonlit hillside
of sweet lea where a silver wolf lies down beside me.
He is the scent of golden wheat and
his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.
In the hushed silence between waves
sighs fill the night as stars come alive
and the breeze is a soft poem.
Nude in the moon light but for drifting
shadows the swirl in your glass keeps
perfect time with far off thunder.
I need to look away from your gun powder eyes
that lethal shot
before the fluttering of a thousand butterflies
I breathe in the circlets of your cigarette and
the honey sweet scent of willing hostages.
As fragile as fireflies we escape to the madness of
our minds where all we have to do is live.
Then, wisdom grew from fruit
and time was a seedling.
All creatures spoke the same,
hymns of bats, the breath of horses.
We were winged and freedom
was etched on the soles of our feet.
Pathways in the earth and sky were
known not charted.
We step naked into the blazing sun
bare ourselves to golden rivers and
awesome tidal thunder.
Dali and The Garden of Eden
art by José Roosevelt, a Brazilian Surrealist, illustrator/painter.
At night we entwine
interlacing tendrils weaving
bodies stretching, limbs
reaching, giving way, every ripple
replicated in the amber sand.
Nights are as sweet as dew drops
on a rose and each breath is a vow.
A silent Oracle I inscribe Arabesque
across the grain of your skin
so that when you wake
you will remember.
Browsing through souvenirs
I am reminded of you.
The door to the past swings open
releasing sleek eels of memories
where I am nothing or at best
a trembling leaf lost on a autumn breeze.
Do you ever think of me?
See me in constellations pressed against the sky,
hear me in the surge of the tide?
I would seek comfort in the moon but I am
so trivial and he is taken by the stars.
In dreams my tongue is a crimson snake
Hungrily flicking the skin of your thigh
curling around the catch in my throat.
He is god and has named me regret.
I close our door with pried fingers.
I’ve given up on prayer hands.
Art by Rita Hardy