the sea throws fishing nets into the sky

the blood of stars drops on a lonely shore

acoustic

ships fantasize under the reddish voice of night

fingers of the truth pulsate inside the wombs of underwater weeds

I comb my hair with dreams of roses and of salt

you smoke cigars within the loneliness of banyan parks

and in our island where all Mondays dress in black

our Tuesdays lock the saints in cages built from tentacles of mud

synapses snap

confused, the ships engage in fratricide,

mercenaries, the new gods, turn statues made of marble into dust

on Sundays, intoxicated by the smell of oleanders, we make love

hallucinations separate the blood of stars from sand

and by the sea which throws its fishing nets into the sky

we wait for the true day

the day that never comes

© 2019 Gabriela M.

Gabriela M. is a US university…