Summer 2008 [Issue No. 14]
We Are Not
We are not the book that begins:
"bloodroot, feverfew," or the mint
between a mouth and an ear: mi vida,
mi estrella, the iodine letting down
its dirty hair – mi cordero, my lamb.
Listen, mi cielo, the sky is not
a metaphor. We are not the eyedropper
of sunrise, or the roof beams
that shudder under all these hours.
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