Cabeleira de prata
Cascata
Que se roça e emprenha
A cama
Com cheiro de mata.

Fresca, pura e nua
A minha sede, senhora, é sua.

I know
so much, about all of you.
What’s the point?
You torment me
in sleep, with streaks of grey
and white vapors.

Death in
the inner chamber,
exhaled into the morning.

I’m pulling out,

all the tiny white crosses from the ground,

I’m dropping seed,

in the holes.

I have a story in my abdomen,

woven in vibrant thread.

Pull the string, unravel it; I hope your lap is welcoming.

The silver basin sings,

metal on metal.

Good luck reconstructing the narrative; mercury is poisonous.

Porcelain on porcelain,
How did we not shatter,
So violent was the force?

A chuckle fluttered,
From my throat,
Into yours,
Amused at the resilience.

Finally, faith.
Risk.
Throw me.

This is a city of types. I don’t do well in lines.

My mother taught me to disrespect them.

My union, will be at an odd angle.

This obtuse pride, weighs heavy on the point.

Can you balance it?

Two spheres.

Adornment. Abandon.

Imagine the moment of collision.

The necklace snaps. The pigment smudges.

Denim. Silk.

Rub the wrong way, then the right way,

then,

not at all.

A white light.

a rarity.