Continent

 

My late parents, sister, state,   my late country, 

my late        continent—

 

I chart         gold lines     here 

to here         to here         to here,

 

constellation proof    there is a body           left to trace.

 

At the border      crosses fence a perimeter

and fireline trenches             switchback   the hillsides beyond. 

 

I set my disguise

and breach this town      with eyebrows on,

 

lips on,        nose, face   skin     on. 

My hips  buckled          to my ribs.   Tight,

 

tighter.   Night, and the language here         is tinny

mosquito               sting. 

 

Houses emit  only whine     and ringing. I wake

at dawn      with hot welts       all up my thigh

 

and your body                    still missing             still smoking from siege. 

 

I  warned   you        here, don’t speak

when spoken to: 

 

to say hello   we throw ourselves          down

on the ground.

 

 

 

Waterlock

 

This town         can’t remember 

its last      breath:               faces, swollen,

blue     in a pinch of will, smile blue.

 

Collapsed waterbody  found    I lift it, you, blue,

from  oil-edge.  Blue smeared ribs, blue matte   of your hair.

 

Hold, soft as blue     your chambered body in light.

 

A coil of blue faces             tells me blue. Blue spills  

from their mouths, blue burning      their lungs.

 

These house windows      mirror       only blue,

and the rain-done      streets             shine. 

 

The birds                blue, warble         blue marbles of song    

 

as the trees    tremble blue.    

Never mind      that we are water  -locked,

 

refuse     blue. This blue.

This uniform          blue

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