Alstroemeria, Southern-rooted watcher of the skies,
Angel tongues of Peru, with your ******-blushed annunciation
Or Incan-hued sacrificial fire.
So much like the moon tongues of all rivers in first frost or first harvest.
Like first love, first death is the truest form,
And blooms in scorn of all its many-mirrored rivers to come.
For a slide video of this and other poems, please check out my Instagram page at chrissaitta or my Tumblr page at Chris-Saitta.
Curiosity never killed.
But what is found does the true damage.
One of my curls delightfully wraps around his finger,
My hand reaches for his finger, sizes the awful curl,
A word of hate strikes the lover.
You love me, but what is love?
Love is patience,
Love is kindness,
Love is wise,
My love, we are none of those things,
Our love's impatient,
Our love's cruel,
Our love's foul.
See the flower in the desert?
Under the dreadful red sun,
See the petals as they fall?
That is our love.
There is a man in Newfoundland.
His hair is grey, he sails away.
With net and rod he catches cod.
His skin is tan; his calloused hands
no longer steady. Age has made his burdens heavy.
He makes it home, he lives alone.
His wife is buried, in Fogo Island cemetery.
The day is done but there's a guest,
he's small and young. It's his grandson.
He sees a smile upon his face
and it makes
it worth the aches.
Oz and Cali
UK and Spain
There you go
There you are
melting in the sun
coreographing blooming bulbs
sown below the sheets
warm flowering fantasies
with nectar gushing down
the freckled blossoms of my dreams
craving hands fluttering south
like migrating butterflies
you say hi
and I undress
morals quiet down
engaged in acrobatics
of extramarital art
fleeting the charge
of forbidden desire
in dark corridors
and numbered rooms
beneath my ribs
where our hopes riven
by a tender goodbye