Poems by Gina Franco

Fishing

The Bells

passed over the shadows and put our soles on their vanity which seems a body

 

passed over the shadows and put our soles on their vanity which seems a body

 

America. At first I was alone, as when going home. The women I used to know were there on the sidewalks as they had been before. I had maps in my hands and at my feet, on the floor, my one long black bag rode with me past their faces garish blue, their faces mauled, made up, their faces splayed in the surfaces, passing, where I repeat myself too.

I like you. I do.

But the mall went a long way out so I began walking. I began talking to you, cousins. Someone has drawn you in soft dark pencil, fetish and leathered, lithe cousins. Someone has left a body in the sand grass, human, pale, horned as an antelope and socket-eyed.

Blades through the eyes. They gutted you.

Back towards where we came—to where we will come again—you will towards the cities, the escalating windows in the sun, the glass rivers cutting through our many middle-americas, that side, that side, that side, that side, that side, the sun drawn in the glass, the drowned sun and the drowned rising, sinking again, eddying against the bank. Towards the bank.

Mule. Someone crossed you.

See the sweet white flowers in the grass? They spread their faces, they lift their fair faces from the fields. They are horned; they are socket-eyed. They are negatives. They are precisely alike: like that, the body in the grass horns into the sun, my cousins. Like you. Like you.

I do.

 

 


From MiPOesias Revista Literaria