Thursday, January 5, 2012

Glass Tiles

You spilled in a shimmering wave of turquoise
lapping at sandbar boots
over a couch
a different shade of river

spoke in nested tones
of a mouth incubating eggs and seeds
feathered me with the incremental kindness
of a second encounter
a centripetal calm
that bound your limbs to torso
against other forces

I felt your windshield
against the rain of conversation
calibrated my frequency and cadence
to your single pane
you asked which skin products
kept me so young
and my mind wandered
to the mosaic of jars and bottles
tiling my bathroom counter
that only faded the darker pigments

I asked if your family's from Albuquerque
pretty sure of the answer
but needed to hear the names and stories
flow from the arroyos of your tongue
push my palo seco deeper into the flan of river’s edge
to root again

I understood when you excused yourself
a few poems in
rose and dissolved in Guadalupe rainbow apparition
your colors danced like church windows in ceremony
and the sun’s parting glance
the glass garden of my sink

the next morning
I slid your book from the shelf
poured your words into my china
and swallowed the night.

Yasmeen Najmi

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