Painting by Tom Bagshaw
If I could learn how to be wise
as I sink my feet in my dewy garden
after Lady Moon’s wordless tears
break from my shadows and plans.
If I could rent Mother Earth’s womb
and hide myself there, knitting goofy
fantasies of taking pleasure out of my pain
when I am half woman.
If my latino sunburned brain could find
some room for a different grammar,
maybe ( who knows?) the girl from Ipanema would fall
from my ever quiet starry mouth.
If I could take a fish out of my body
or have a dozen years back, I would propose
the theory of the exotic woman:
she – the one with full breasts spilling sexy things,
purring like a cat, trading a space in body
for some cheap favours.
But I am a literary tourist
in a constant odyssey to Ithaca and Rio de Janeiro,
seeking refuge in an ode to myself.
And here ragged hearts play chess with death
as the Pope wears Prada and I use my last words
to explain my failures and atrocities.
Karla Bardanza
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012
..."as the Pope wears Prada..."
ReplyDeleteLoved the imagery in this. Excellent write Karla! tc