Poetry / May 2009 (Issue 7)


Two Poems

by Ivy Alvarez

vena cava

     L. vena: vein; cavus, cava: hollow
     returns blood to the right atrium of the heart

when it rains here
I can pretend it's home

outside, the sky is a cloud
and my hand is condensed with water

from touching walls
of earth

roots weave into my hair
I might stay here

learn to love
the rank air

taking my lungs
wipe the slate

clean of rescue



bend

a thin girl
living in cloud fissures
scoops the fish from between her legs
and waits for the rains to stop

ripples center her feet
and the trees bend, bend

the fruit falls, bursts open,
the seeds dart into the ground

the rain does not stop
in the five minutes it takes
for the man to rain leather
on her back

licks and snaps

the river is a-flood
risen and unfriendly
she can, if she thinks hard enough,
see her friends watch
a dog drowning, floating down
in a dog-ballet
watch them point

there are no fish between her feet
just ripples
and the rain
bending the trees


(Both poems are from Mortal.)

 
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