for Don Lonewolf
Last night through the camellia boles
I gazed, transfixed, at the moonó
I know that she is my mother
Staring back from death, a dark matter.
For hours, we were one
With the earth's static blindness.
She did not envy the living
And I did not mourn the dead.
Tenderly, she lit up my face,
The camellia tree and my lover.
He, asleep on his side, cradling
His own soft sacks.
A few geese
Leave their noisy billows.
Home is a home away from home.
A neighbor's unfixed cat
Courting her own disaster.
A windless branch casts a hard silhouette
Certain of another tomorrow.
Suddenly, I witness the ecstasy of the changing houró
As the sun devours the moon's corona
And the camellia unfurls
In brilliant pinks and reds, and my new love,
With a sweet smile on his sour lips
Struggles toward the bathroom.
His flanks are glistening pearls.
O my mother,
Let the sunlight erase your final torso.
Let the milk of all suffering
Fade into the traffic's clean hum.
Let father's white suit of sin
Blanch into my lover's swooning moans
And all be forgiven.
Let my happiness blister and counter-glow
Against your magnificent sick light.
Hard Love Province