In the House of February

In the house of February,
where we hid from the claws of Carnival
in a nest of cotton sheets, dark wood,
ocean-fogged antique mirrors
reflecting the faces
of people who no longer exist
onto the moon.

old film projectors flutter winged instances
of a little girl we once borrowed,
the clay earthen cooing of your chest
like a melting hummingbird
filling the night with ribbons
& the flickering of my soul singing itself out the open window
over a rusting river of red-tiled rooftops
spilled across South America.

the incessant wind
swallowing the flesh from the pit
like an over-ripe mango seeded with silver-scaled rain.
the chords of children’s floating voices
streaming along the reptilian stones of the street
smoothed to glistening bone
by the lost footsteps of three hundred years
lain down beneath them
& the rain,
breastfeeding the phoenix branches
emerging from the charcoal of ancient forlorn cathedral bell towers.

in my throat hangs a birdcage
& I write on our empty plates now
with the whole inaccessible feast
knotted inside me
nunca volver
nunca puedo volver
only further & further
the distant ribbons of the night
weaving & weaving
a life.