sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox
Chronicle of the Rain
One of her nipples was red, tepid, carnal; the other, blue, looked made for death's caress. They also brought to mind the luxuri- ous faucets of a porcelain tub. There's a story of a woman who was devoured by the moon. It's said that her cries were made of silver. Never write the words "tiger" and "dove" in the same line, for the first may devour the second. I was fascinated by the cloud the farmer kept anchored to the door of his shack: "It's very docile," he explained, "and we milk it three times a week. That's all the land needs." I knew that he had assassinated the sea, for his hands were stained blue. "That swan is a rapist!" the frightened girl shouted at me, point- ing at the erect neck of a ferocious swan. And I, who through some strange interference shared her dreams, proposed at that instant that we exchange nightmares. The girls came running: "The sea, the sea!" they shouted. "There's a wave made of gold!" I asked her to, I asked her like a child asking for the impossible: she took off her shoes and clothes and walked all night long on the sea. It was a forest of infinite trees, and each tree had a swing, and in each swing was a dead child waiting to be resurrected. A boy whose eyes were darkening asked me, "When I die, will the sea cease to exist?" I chose not to disillusion him.