Untitled, #1

When the sun came streaking down, split by
the prism of day, it broke into sparkling bits.
A blood-glow spread into my fingers and toes,
blurring edges into cream, pushing out loneliness.

By noon, scarlet leaves fluttered from trees
like dying butterflies, and spicy sweat
trickled down hollows of thighs and armpits
sucked into dry cracks of earth.

I built a shelter and waited, staring
at the salty glimmer on the swirl of my thumb,
squinting for the source of the white burn,
the invisible lamp held behind the scrim.

At dusk the world held its blue-gold breath.
I sat motionless, the jungle mute and dark.
I saw an endless pathway of reflected candles,
strings of silver streaking, tiny stones hitting metal roofs.
Steam smoked off rocks, salamanders and frogs
rubbed their bellies in mud-slick, and blotches
of turquoise and emerald dripped into dense soup.

I let the promise soak through my skin.

Untitled, # 2

Down a highway scorched with sun, I have the sense
you and I have been traveling for ages
through a landscape of burnt orange dust,
and always turkey vultures overhead, riding wind.

We pause for a roadside distraction, a zoo out of nightmare.
Snow leopards and spider monkeys panting on their sides,
bits of hair blowing about cages like tumbleweed,
not a human in sight, only piped-in mariachi music
jangling tin-circus meringues from invisible speakers.
The peacock sneezes
and a long paper husk of snake skin clings to the fence.
I tuck my tail between my legs as we leave.

Driving on I feel the hum beneath me of unstoppable wheels
absorbing all shock. You pull strands of hair at the nape
of my neck, hum along with Willie Nelson.
So tempting to think this will last, that we will keep driving,
watching the moon shimmering in heat, silver gelatin rising.
But you begin to speak of far-away things:
juries, witnesses, and heavy handshakes.
We stop along the road for fish tacos and cold beer,
and walk, stagger actually,
along the Pacific, gripping our greasy napkins.

Out in the distance whales move, giant, gray monks
in watery robes spraying their breath into stars.
You see her first--the huge shell with metallic scales,
dark head pushed into sand. We leave her to rest,
or perhaps, to squat upon her seed. In the morning I rush
to see her but the flies cluster and shriek.
A smear of eye oozes with ants.
Her shell is toppled by the tide, striped belly exposed.

It seems inescapable.

We drive on and I watch the buzzards incessantly
searching, reminding me of their black feasts.
What if I step out of your car, let it pass on
with its rented air conditioning, and your wide knuckled grip
on the steering wheel? A quick kiss stinging of sweat and salt
and I'd walk down the road alone, barefoot, past ancient cacti,
sand coating my teeth and tongue, a stone in my mouth to trick
thirst, until I could no longer hear your engine,
just the soft push of sand
straining through toes, blood heavy with heat.

The airport smells of petrol. Everywhere long lines
and mustached guards with automatic weapons.
I press my ear against your chest, listen
to your heart pump and spark, the distant roar
of blood's ocean inside its shell, a galaxy of space.
Like last-night,
palm fronds scratching the thatched roof,
clawing their way inside as we made love,
clawing our way into each other.

Before you leave I reach inside your mouth,
break off a tooth, and leave you angry,
eyes black like a shark's, sucking at your empty hole.
I return to the sea where I wanted to keep you,
strangle you with seaweed so we could sink together,
laughter bubbling through our lips, our toes
lengthening into roots,
our limbs the branches of a deep, dark ocean tree.
I kick sand over the bonfire, watch a single ash
sail across the sky, disintegrating as it flies,
then throw your bone back into the sea--
such an insignificant splash--
to be molded by her tongue into pearl.

Deirdre Guthrie is a yoga teacher/writer from San Francisco who has just finished her first book, about a tango-dancing crime reporter, entitiled A Cheap Death. She currently lives in Chicago and thinks life makes the most sense when she's contemplating it upside down in a headstand.