By Mario Duarte
1. Into Petals
Let me open this fist into petals
between us, on every plane, and under
all twists of weather—let me turn the key
into the keyhole of sky, and ascend
every staircase, every tower until
we wave to the sunflower fields below.
Underlining the soft soles of our shoes,
some bipeds say there is nothing but death,
that death rolls between tire treads—even
children speak with death’s split tongue—so sharply,
so precisely, even parents tremble
in the unforgiving wake death leaves.
Let the swirls of your fingertips ripple
until the exquisite light of your face
outlines the future over my chest
until your emotions churn radiantly
under the wet moonlight, under this roof
engraved with the leave prints of so many.