Gaucho

 

 Despite the ‘Deacon Blues’ to spite

                          his wife inland, Roman jams

                                with Captain Morgan & a magnet

                                          bottled on his lips. He puckers at the casts

                         of spray-tanners, clementine skin peelers

             & their sober kids through his incantation —

    I knew ya when you were this tall —

                        his measure against Mom’s pelvis.

                                   At my own ‘Hey Nineteen,’ sneaking sips 

                                                  from her strawberry daiquiri, I tongue-flick

                                                                the saltrim of the Gulf’s air & sashay

                                            with the inheritance of her hips.

                                                      Of course I ferment in his palm

                                                                       fronds, his ear reminiscent on my conch —

                                                                                                             ya look just like her.

Whio (Ground Nester)

 

I

 

When push comes to shove

comes back to pull again, that compass 

pawns me off with two hands,

massaging my skin’s tent 

to the ridgeline — that spot where 

collarbone & neck pitch in 

the torso’s dirt. Under its fingernails,

dark crescents. Halfmoon pelts

through the canopy. See, it’s a question 

of stakes: our grounds, or farm fences.

 

II

 

Down the greywacke, we carried 

our clatter. Tia tracks sided with mataī,

butane flesh freckled. They said to strap 

pack-to-pack for the river-

cross, so I sold you on everything —

the moss slipping jigsaw rocks, the caps’

quicksilver, mud, its cling. 

My spine caved with confession.

Your rolled-up knees spawned

the headwaters down, sprouting

wet soles within silt.

 

III

 

Friend, fog, face-to-face 

with the flysheet, I grew too 

used to your lift, guaranteed —

here the interstate, there the sky-

scraper, your dewy whispers just enough 

to inflate a mattress & veil

the valley, whacking toetoe.

Like & with you, our tent city evaporates

afterdawn. What I am trying to say:

alongside is not enough.

 

IV

 

Nor your regiment, nor your forearm

whiskered in the scatter — & to you,

nary the damp interior I reveal

when outside ignites & subsides.
I try to match. The line between 

pouring out & a tidal force is horizonless,

that skipping stone swallowed

by the mist. Only the darkening okewa,

only sleeping smothered — & to us,

how the heat sounds, huddled.

Customs

 

Now, the TSA agent will double-take, headbang

between your Walgreens stock photo & your face

 

for your traveller’s stubble unravels after twenty-

something hours in the airport, laid over

 

& overall you are a racoon with a visa to verge

on dreamland in the waking world, meaning-maker,

 

left-lane hugger — hell, your frizzy fringe recycles

terminal dust into bunny castles — so she, she with

 

red eyes filtering through these red-eye basket cases,

ultimately decides that the X that marks your sex-spot 

 

is common treasure, is like the quicksand pack

of Biscoff’s marinating in your back-pocket,

 

is like the hon you need a haircut winging you

to carousel no. three, is like white cheddar Cheez-Its,

 

is like horizons, is like jet-black under-eye bags 

lagging from coffee break to coffee break,

 

is like Joni jiving with all these clouds from

both sides now, is like underbelly, is like curly,

 

& is the long exposure footage that tucks

your transnational dumpster dive under her stamp —

 

to further cosy under the navy duvet 

covers of your passport.