I laid naked on the rug
in the center
of my mother’s room,
fixed my eyes
to the ceiling
as it spun
And I spun with it
while
flirtations of skin
seeped
from the fissures of memory
and desire
Excerpt from the poem “Morning Chimera” by Diego Leonardo, from the upcoming book Every Night Left to Us
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The reflection of Irene’s short red skirt reminded him of the first time he kissed a girl: at the carnival, inside the House of Mirrors, his sweaty hands still buried in his pockets.
Later, after he had become a professor of ancient literature, and Irene was just a girl, he slid his hand down the front of her pants and felt the firmness of her member, the satiny of her scrotum.
When he said “I do”, he didn’t mean it but the sound the words made as they vibrated from his vocal folds was enough to soothe Irene’s melancholy for chaos.
On the bus home after the procedure, Irene saw a mother and baby and instantly the floor came up and slapped her in the face.
When Irene was gone, the professor remembered being a child and putting the wind, the sea, and the rocks of the earth in his satchel and pedaling towards his mother’s house.
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I have enough time
To read one more little dead poem
Make it count
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