July 26, 2024 | poem by Sofia Bringas Correa
Sallow, with yellow fingernails carefully tucked in by a
coat of cotton white-blue, and my rings cling to each
meaty bone and take their shape (silver, brassy, and some
times yellow-gold, which fools no one, especially not I)
despite my lack of hard-labor work and effort. Man still
sweats even when he’s just sitting, if the day calls for it and
here, the day is always calling in the mild caws of little
gray and brown birds with chevron feathers.
On the porch, in the bald night, I see their hands illuminated
by small, glowing orbs like halos around trinitarian fingers.
My hair clings to my neck and exposes each curve of
infantile head, bumpy and soft, and the wind,
I can tell you, blows northward.
What could be there… What beguiles the stomach of the winds, it’s marshy
gasses bubbling upwards through these unplugged shafts.
There is still dirt on my knees, but I can smell the citrus
soaps, I can feel the terrycloth like roaming podia on my
scabbed back, and I pick pulp from my teeth with my
tongue.
