There was a long history.
But it stopped short.
I remember travels,
discoveries of lands unconquered,
where you touched the virgin land…
a buckled boot, tap, tap on the sands
and like some quivering impotent,
some brave and fore-thoughtful master of zen
some good and hapless
bastard
unknowing and judging everything
pyrite and circe
even the sprite in your arms,
turned back
toward the blue and the empty
back towards your arches, your fora, your assembled,
suckling multitudes.
There were epics in which I never uncovered my face,
though I saved you
from the cannibals desirous
of your scalp,
from the Lorelai,
from the mirages in the desert that sung your true name.
So long ago,
that tribesmen tell the tale
to make their sons believe
that there is loyalty in this life
When the lion’s maw is ruby
from my entrails,
they sob for your unknowing loss.
Their sisters sob for your
moon-like face, marred
by unknowable anguish.
When I hear them ’round the fire, spinning the tale
I laugh gales
crash clouds
and they fear their gods’ anger
but nothing kills a story you want to be true.
I wish to tell them
it was nothing like the moon.
Not a pock nor a sea
of tranquility to tell you from
bodies celestial or Adam,
cast out from gardens more blissful
than this.
It was small things, small things sure.
Yes, I remember your mouth.
The haze and prickle of your cheek.
You turned back.
You saw no Hispaniola sunsets
You had maps
ink and sweat-smeared dragons
of misfortune
marked.
I was the place where you must have known
you could take one more step and fall off the earth.
