|Magic Shop // St Augustine|
Expatriate, you, with notebook pages
wrapping crowded market streets in sketch,
with stones pocketed from the naked waters
of your mother’s country, with chiseled obsidian
from sacrificial altars stretching through millennia,
I would enshroud you in robes of chilly mountain fog
embroidered with the guiding star
from the gold of your sprawling ruins,
the crumbled stones of legacy carved
into your very limbs.
You are a glyph, a message from the ancients,
the bard in sheep’s clothing; a preening parrot
preaching of a primal fear and loathing,
the quiet denial of modern comforts
in exchange for banners of the old guard.
She cries back out for you,
her clutching grasp empty
as you throw yourself, exhausted,
back on the shores of an adopted home,
And she’ll have you back or condemn you
to a life of plaster brick facades,
left only with fading dreams of rhythmic chaos
and a chicken’s heart plucked live
from unflinching claws of magic.
The mountainside breathes its whispers
of spells over adventurous wanderers
and such hearts will never quite be home,
never settled, ready for the inevitable next chapter
of the bound-to-roam.
Every face should be a laughing girl
running after donkey-drawn carts,
every set of arms laden with rambutan
and durian’s enduring potency.
These arms and faces lack- the tequila brings them back.
The tequila brings it back,
the silent thundering of tar-black village night,
pounding blood in ears and numbing lips.
Tequila brings back big cats.
It is you who is the jaguar,
not these cartoon muscle groups in packs
of teal and black running on a line through all their yards.
These cushy blobs of strength know nothing
of breath flavored with lovi lovi and liquor -
they sleep in the sheets of protected royalty
while the jaguar scales branches.
Curl around forgotten monoliths,
sleep free. No predator but Time
or his mistress Misfortune
could rouse a lounging beast-
he does what he wants, his only plea
(more a languorous desiring): to find a spot
specialized for camouflaging the shine
of rippling dots so as to allow recline;
a vantage point to observe the restive milling
of the rest of us, spilling back and forthto the amusement of twitching whiskers.