Araina Poetry (3)

Down South


there are flaming beds of mountains
and the days are yellow and cross
in summer
the heat swells upon
moist black flesh
and is scented
with pork and warm pies
through darkened rooms
we leave as though from caves
emerging
seeking air that barely moves
And day is put to sleep on narrow porches
while streelights defend us from the night

There is a humming at my ear
and wave-like sounding from a age-ed tree
it's whispers blow like the ocean's hissing spell
and stops to open sunlight on my face
I sit here on a skirt of green
and lock my fingers with that mossy claw
above the sod and changeful breast
which heaves and ebbs like the river's flow
I hear the silent surge of space and time
beated by the gentle heart below
and rise and fall with exhaled promise
a servant of the virgin clay
and trinket passed from world to world
I pass like a feather on her careless breath
a flower lost with each new petal's falling
to the wind that carries it away

We dangle in senseless motion
clinging to steel
and gurter bright
martini olives nod their heads now
the clouds outside the window inhale us
their puffy hands neglect our careful thoughts
the pastries smell stale my senses
so that i cannot recall
my name and assigned seat
when the cabin dips
my mouth flies open like a fish
above while roaring waves resist
we read, we watch, we eat despair
unatural beings in the supernatural
clinging to the earth from air
We must not gasp
for it is better
to watch the great wings peel neat as foil
table tops and vomit bags intact
the hostess will organize our fears