Diana Garza Islas

Translated by Cal Paule

It was a Maori dance, the day that spurred I jumped in beacon.

I traced a lake, I divided, you saw it. And maybe I said: The language of the mute may be my only caress. Two words. Here is here.

The place wasn’t a thorn, holes boring through or fragmented humidity. Something neither. To say it forty times until I transform into light: bonsais of dirty wings, balsam, microscopic-lean-tos.

—Evacuate the museum.

There, I stairs, affix tin cans. We bought little spoons, false mahogany where to accumulate very pale pink baby’s sweaters.

(We closed the cherrywoods.)

Here, I and my thigh are a cycle of gargoyles, I and my visual apparatus of ribbing with little sparks, me and Ruiti on Water St., cytoplasms of a.m. in cascades of possible milk singing me boxes of honey

when I didn’t doubt if blue were blue.

I have said light and know
that today I said light.

And don’t know. Maybe I said caged gale or I said now or I said sloop or that granny is a sugar bowl in the middle of a tablecloth of verygreen lilac and this is a planet without ashlars, don’t forget.

(Muscovado roots, sugareaters, made of glass.)

When in real time it’s only him saying this is up this is down, how is it? Marking a milliliter of yellow, a centimeter of fluorine, apple seeds evaporating by touch.

I’m a king look at me mommy.

And his clothes are invisible and an airplane ploughs through her hands. Andromedate
no, yes inverse galaxies that by day cede crayon blood to the wall in zigzag lines.

          This is a boat mommy.

I have already seen there the depetaling of asteroids from their eyes,

not a single tree that testifies

that a boat is a boat and an oil lamp hangs from a pheasant

and is a reservoir.

That a dwarf yells at a lemon tree it’s pewter that culminates.
That a woman remembers I never was a turtle never was a dragon never was a woman.
That an amphibian distinguishes the shore.
That a vulture beats something red.
That a rabbit throbs in the palm of an enormous anaidomena
and somebody drops a candy wrapper in the stone fountain.

(There is an ivy toy.)

There is a girl-armoir who her fetus simmered in vitro under the picture window
is in the act of switching on.
And the girl looks at a branch and says it’s my key.
And the girl looks at the key and says it’s my sword.
And a boy looks at the sword and stays quiet
and remembers the sound of helixes.

                If the jujubes are true.
But a spider is a spider or to auscultate?

And the red grows then a diminutive pencil
writing me again on the nose:

The perfume they don’t tell me.

And it isn’t castles the velocity.
And mine aren’t eyes ten aeroplanes almost purple, golden.
And not a burst circle, footprint fruit horizontal froth
green silhouettes not tearing themselves to pieces subtle in my expression if I fleelight.

And it’s not insert your own star here.

Fleeting, boxes of honey in their casket like this dominating dance my last name made there with liquid blue symmetry and prosthetic leg on the missing petal.

And this too is a boat mommy.

And facing what in him spreads by leagues or languages at bogbottom is your name and your name means to arm oneself to the teeth and only in the hole in the wall liquid precisely the reverse of my fingertips kilometers away there is a star of bone and a cartilage of mirrors looking at itself in the shade of the river and a face of snow that is a, but that was a thousand eight a thousand suns and I don’t remember.

This tells me an undulated line on the wall that they draw in silence their three years and astrolabes joined:

“So here is where she was?”
“Yes mommy here is here.”

(And Water St. is crowned in sorrels.)

* * *

I have a garden in the palm of my hand
stuck to an extraterrestrial submarine.

And Water St. is crowned in sorrels.

Intertwining of blackberries embroidering sugar
lips and snow my eyes crush the mirror.

And Water St. is crowned in sorrels.

They shout midday in an infinite forest
like this they kill me sagittal umbra of magenta birds.

And Water St. is crowned in sorrels.

It rains glints of groundhog at the garden.
Crinoline-apples livening up the record I shattered

to the saga like this neon of they nibble
bee police


two little milk heads in their smooth suits: froo froo: the whistle almost of a fluorescent insect: suckle: the mask of my hands at this line: to the open sky I have come back this is how it is: bee stings on our arms that peak quieting us now for the calabash of the enlisted

              : so amber.

And how honeycomb, tell yourself them.

What casket of honey Water St.s so much crown and not say what thirst, only word and imperative caress because it may be, yes, to know even the glass rabbit singing on cotton boats Maori dances, rain dances or celestial bodies that were bodies when no not even lips joined and were vine.


I’m a king look at me mommy rain me a boat I’m thirsty.
And clouds you/don’t see mommy, you rain.

(Me seeing it now, in sun or honeys.)

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