The Amazon, Brazil

my body as the Amazon

it winds and winds

for days

with you in it,

blue and bottle-necked,

deep with

something beneath until you

break the surface

with two knuckles out of place

steal the lips and bruise my back

behind the second door

on Easter Sunday.


chapada

dive off the road

in a shitty hire car

to the river below the bridge

somewhere in Bahia

where they wash clothes

bodies

dogs, where

dragonflies land on freckled shoulders with purple tails,

crystal wings and marbled eyes

where sunlight is honey and

bubbles are crocodiles,

the signs don’t matter

when the water’s like this.


Maggie

m.g

in the afternoon

you lined yourself in gold,

things flying in the sunlight behind you

each one small and glowing,

twigs snapped for no reason,

your stare always

intact. you rocked

on the hands beneath your thighs,

and watched me move in and out of your shadow,

clicking, rolling,

crouching as the flares rose above your head like

Pentecost and i

could have looked at you forever.


my body as Siberia

it's hours and hours

of naked skin,

dunes sweeping, shifting, crest

at my hips and dip

again between my breasts. your breath

has always made my bones

snap (and your hands have always

fixed them again).

it's why i let you near me.

and though the winter buries

me in white and black,

you know what's beneath, and you still

think i'm worth seeing, if only because

i'm prettier underneath all that snow.