Today's poem is by Inès Pujos
The night cuts you open as you sit her
waiting for a lover an avocado in hand
The Elephant and the Dove, they called you two,
But what can be said about your sister?
A fish finds himself licked hollow from the ocean's salt
in the long throat of a pelican.
Downtown New York, in a panaderia, she kneads the bread
when hours before she woke to a handful of hair.
On the lemon drop tapestry, the grandfather clock ticks
away her shedding eyelashes, a spider's whisper.
He watches the gringa typehe doesn't give a damn if
she knows how to writecan she make love?
A soldier comes home to find his wife on the patio chair,
her curves tearing away from the afternoon's sweat.
Last night I met a man who smoked twice as much as you.
Last night I met a man who loved twice as much as you.
The doctors are worried, Frida; they tell me you're in love
with a communist covered in blood: Diego's paint.
Copyright © 2009 Inès Pujos All rights reserved
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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