By: Amanda Villafranco
Matins
Hands fold, legs
fold, bodies fold
into prayer, spoken
in tongues, in teeth,
in the silent sheen
of sweat and this
is prayer, what
is prayer but
origami striving
for form from creases,
pleading for relief,
for breath, one-
ness, release. The crane
animates, flies
toward that heaven
from which it flees.
Compline
Their voices—tremors—
noisy crows flocking—
rise up and up
and up
chilly,
reaching an atmospheric level that condenses
them, precipitates them, gives
form to the humid
occurrence of their words
which then fall, black
rain on blacker land.
Drinking
I should be writing something right now
Instead, I’m drinking
in the view: quiet
valley of your temple sloping cheekbones
cacao eyes hang above:
two eclipsed planets suspended in a sky of wisdom
gleaned from the cruel crop of conquest
generations of pain sewn in fields of history, defeat
victorious struggle at harvest
roots dive deeper, delineate
the DNA that composes
perfect contours in your ageless face
I should be recording every moment, every detail:
the name of the wine: the vintage, the brand, and the year
how it softens your laugh
eases your mind
allows the narrative to tumble, freed
easily from that dark, glass bottle
I should remember that you are the vessel
you carry time
infinite space bearing witness to the triumphant
fortitude of a woeful continent
your heart, the mouth of ruby tributaries
a chalice brimming with humid secrets
aging in the dark with each passing year
Amanda Villafranco is a traveling academic, mother, wife, and thoroughbred race horse rider.
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