Tropic of cancer

her poetry squeaks:
it is hate,

it is fear

leaping faster
to the twilight,
feeling so little,
feeling so low,
waiting for something
to unearth the moon
in her.

you don't know
but she died
in october,
in november
and january.
somebody threw 
her pearls overboard
and she has been lingering
on vagueness since then.
it haunts me
to see her rainy volcanoes
as if she were all etcetera.
after crossing equator
with her hands hiding
her poison,
there's nothing
left but two syllables
in one stanza.

if you look close,
you can only feel
ambient noise 
in her poems;
nobody can understand
what was lost.

i think she agreed to exist
but who will tell her
she's still alive
before her poetry squeaks 

karla bardanza

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