Bamboo Mat



                         Alone

I  sleep on a bamboo mat
 under the secure blanket
 of your breath

 folded like creases
 on a page   fingers
 gripping the space

 between your rib cage
 I gaze into a hollow hole
 where my pores are buckets

 collecting tear drops that fall
 from your lips
 abandoned and dilapidated

 womb-a carcass

 for dead fish to sleep and
 amputated dreams to


  Wait—

       in chains






  Fragments of a Love Note
  -for Ai the poet (peace be unto your spirit)



I miss you forever
You see I am trapped
In a coffin

A bouquet of swords
Placed neatly at the helm
    
Just before my captivity
I was caught in a storm

My hair strands
Fought against the wind
And won

It was my mind
That was too weak
It stopped to smell a single
Rose

     The enemy surprised
     Me from behind
     And cut off my head






  Sapphire


The lake wore an emerald necklace
I rinsed my hair in your sapphire eyes

As fire rings slipped over evening


 soft

like  wings of a seagull’s arched entrance
into the harbor 

 your hands

 held the wind at bay
 as I turned
 my cheek from fear






  Simplicity

Treading softly
Over a catacomb
Of mollusks
Where citrus crystals   burst
And the balm in your
Smile disarms

Me

Shy  flames waft
Between glances
 we find
Ourselves in the midst
Of a combustible implosion


Arms intertwined
Kiss’ rescue abdicated


swallowtail’s vestments
invoke the ambience of night in day
Bright colors churn
As our eyes imbibed simplicity






   Sketch #21: Coup de Tếtề, after Bertolt Brecht’s The Mask of Evil


“It rains down on us in those twittering
hours when the streets turn their faces to the dawn,
and when two bodies who have found nothing,
disappointed and depressed, roll over;”


lust’s solstice begins to end
as indigo aura changes costumes
throughout the night, concealing physics’
schizophrenic tendencies, like a magician’s
wand, right to left movements, redundant as repeating
the alphabet, beauty like shattered china
can never be what it used to be.






   Sketch #23: Sun Kiss, after Jose Emilio Pacheco’s The Enemy


“Within each of my actions
I always encounter the enemy: the I,
the fascist within,
the dragon or sea urchin whose insatiable jaws
pronounce only verbs:”


  sharp reciprocal winds
  from the sprinting thighs
  blister my ears

   ***

  I will not listen to lies
    from the house fly
    exchanging messages between
       the living and the dead

   ***

  liquid beads flow in symmetry—
     soft calligraphy
   like henna

   ***

   a
  kiss*
   from*
  
  the
     sun*






Sketch #24: Quintessence, after Arthur Rimbaud’s The Sun Has Wept Rose


“The sun has wept rose in the shell of your ears,
The world has rolled white from your back, your thighs;
The sea has stained rust the crimson of your breasts,
And man has bled black at your sovereign side.”


light wears a pearl negligee
throughout winter mornings
 delicate and whimsical
  sun pours modest
amounts of champagne over time
  slow
   music
    quivers
from the larynx of Aves’ sublime prosody






Sketch #27: Vigilance, after William Shakespeare’s Sonnet CVI


“When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;”



 Thoughts carouse thin halls
 of crowded rooms where  walls
 are blood stained and darkness
 imprisons light
  A smile



Stunningly
vigilant as when
a bare face is shrouded
 by a spider’s web

 warm

 mucilage

 salutation






Sketch #28: Apparition, after T.S. Eliot’s Morning at the Window


“They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.”


     
  
  Papers traverse
  around the desk
  Like seed from
 ragweed   

     agitated eagerness
     forms cumulus clouds
     from heavy breaths

  silence


forbidden enters
as light showers
an empty room






 Sketch #30: Changing Seasons, after Joachim du Bellay’s Hymn to the Winds


“To you, troop so fleet,
That with winged wandering feet,
Through the wide world pass,
And with soft murmuring
Toss the green shades of Spring”


     
  
    grief is like goat weed
   thrown around by the
    resuscitating exhalations  of changing seasons…
       it must ebb
      at some point or
     you will be destroyed




  
Sketch#31: Blue, after José Emilio Pacheco’s Ashes
  
 
  
“Ashes beg no one’s pardon.  
They simply melt into non-being,  
scatter in concentrated grayness.
  
Ashes are smoke you can touch,  
fire mourning itself.” 
  
                                                                        hydrogen coils   
around oxygen’s  
                                                                        tongue until flame   
transmutes 
  
blue 
  
the dwelling place   
of                  deep 
  
pain  
                         suffering  
  
blue 
  
mirages covers desert  
sands and your eyes: 
  
blue 
  
daggers pierce my   
sandstone heart 
  
drilling wells  
penetrating my soul 
  
             
  
            
  
Sketch#32: The Burning Man, after José Emilio Pacheco’s The Island Garden
  
“The island garden: here the roses
  
do not bloom: they burst into flames.
  
They balance the air
  
like clouds amid the greenery.”
  
 a
  
man
  
knows how
  
     to burn
  
     when his
  
soul
  
   drinks pain
  
through a straw,
  
sifted
  
like flour
  
the color
  
 of his hands
  
shaken
  
by
  
nothing:
  
thunder
  
released from
  
the palms of love
    
 
  
Serena Tome writes from the edge of Atlanta, GA. She is the poetry editor for 
Leaf Garden Press. She has literary work published and/or forthcoming in, Ann Arbor Review, 
BlazeVox, Word Riot, Calliope Nerve, Moon Milk Review, and many other publications. 
Her first chapbook is forthcoming with Differentia Press. You can find out more about 
Serena, HERE.