Today's poem is by Inès Pujos

Night’s Song

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 type—he doesn't give a damn if
she knows how to write—can 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
from Alehouse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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