" Curvatures "
Yours will not be the last hand
she touches, last face she sees. She boards
only when the conductor's final cry
is inescapable. Steel and wheels
already in motion. Parallel rails strain past
one true point of perspective, plunge through
unnerving crests of blue. Arch of her foot,
arc of a hip, curl of the spine -
her departure curvilinear.
You know nothing of this. You are in Canaima,
free falling at the feet of Salto Angel.
Tepuis arch blue above mists at dawn.
Pemons feed you casava, keep lost world secrets
to themselves. The feathered headband
of the river man arcs above your brow.
Curled inside the fetal shell
of the cock-of-the-rock is a letter
you will never read.
Face against the glass, she witnesses seven
continents exhale. Words shift with the fervor
of tectonic plates in the mouth of the moon.
Little now remains. Curve of her throat,
orb of a breast, bend of the rib -
she has reached ellipse.
Here in Devil's Canyon, rain grows fleshy,
curved as mangoes. Jacaranda sways
in the orbital pull of Wei. Indian women warn
it takes a strong spirit to live in the jungle.
Drunk on chica, you bend to sleep's will ;
dream of Matawi, the place to die.
Yours will not be the last skin she tastes,
last voice she hears. At the apex,
there is a noise like thunder, like hunger.
That rumble in the mountain is a mesmerizing
sound, a deep contralto in your marrow.
You won't know if it's rhapsody or fear.
© 2004 M
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