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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Aimee Nezhukumatathil - Baked Goods

Flour on the floor makes my sandals

slip and I tumble into your arms.

 

Too hot to bake this morning but

blueberries begged me to fold them

 

into moist muffins. Sticks of rhubarb

plotted a whole pie. The windows

 

are blown open and a thickfruit tang

sneaks through the wire screen

 

and into the home of the scowly lady

who lives next door. Yesterday, a man

 

in the city was rescued from his apartment

which was filled with a thousand rats.

 

Something about being angry because

his pet python refused to eat. He let the bloom

 

of fur rise, rise over the little gnarly blue rug,

over the coffee table, the kitchen countertops

 

and pip through each cabinet, snip

at the stumpy bags of sugar,

 

the cylinders of salt. Our kitchen is a riot

of pots, wooden spoons, melted butter.

 

So be it. Maybe all this baking will quiet

the angry voices next door, if only

 

for a brief whiff. I want our summers

 

to always be like this—a kitchen wrecked

with love, a table overflowing with baked goods

warming the already warm air. After all the pots

 

are stacked, the goodies cooled, and all the counters

wiped clean—let us never be rescued from this mess.

Aimee Nezhukumatathil - What I Learned From the Incredible Hulk

When it comes to clothes, make

an allowance for the unexpected.

Be sure the spare in the trunk

of your station wagon with wood paneling

 

isn’t in need of repair. A simple jean jacket

says Hey, if you aren’t trying to smuggle

rare Incan coins through this peaceful

little town and kidnap the local orphan,

 

I can be one heck of a mellow kinda guy.

But no matter how angry a man gets, a smile

and a soft stroke on his bicep can work

wonders. I learned that male chests

 

also have nipples, warm and established—

green doesn’t always mean envy.

It’s the meadows full of clover

and chicory the Hulk seeks for rest, a return

 

to normal. And sometimes, a woman

gets to go with him, her tiny hands

correcting his rumpled hair, the cuts

in his hand. Green is the space between

 

water and sun, cover for a quiet man,

each rib shuttling drops of liquid light.

Aimee Nezhukumatathil - The Two Times I Loved You The Most On A Farm

after Dorothea Grossman

 

It was your idea to teach me how to sleep

under the stars       how to hold a gun      how

to shoot it in the air              and firework it

    across the setting sun          a silver dragonfly

with a singular purpose:     to hunt

and snap        its mouth around          the sweetest bee—

pluck it right out of the air—

I didn’t know                      love could be so loud.

 

And once, the fields                        of soybean and mice

              became           a kind of       prayer,

                          shushing tassels            on the blown-back

      calico curtains   of your                childhood bedroom

where                you kissed me           my shoulders

before    the window—    I never saw           the ribs

        of a silver silo       that way again.

Aimee Nezhukumatathil - Are All the Break-Ups in Your Poems Real?

If by real you mean as real as a shark tooth stuck

in your heel, the wetness of a finished lollipop stick,

the surprise of a thumbtack in your purse—

then Yes, every last page is true, every nuance,

bit, and bite. Wait. I have made them up—all of them—

and when I say I am married, it means I married

all of them, a whole neighborhood of past loves.

Can you imagine the number of bouquets, how many

slices of cake? Even now, my husbands plan a great meal

for us—one chops up some parsley, one stirs a bubbling pot

on the stove. One changes the baby, and one sleeps

in a fat chair. One flips through the newspaper, another

whistles while he shaves in the shower, and every single

one of them wonders what time I am coming home.

Aimee Nezhukumatathil - Sea Church

Give me a church
made entirely of salt.
Let the walls hiss
and smoke when
I return to shore.

 

I ask for the grace
of a new freckle
on my cheek, the lift
of blue and my mother’s
soapy skin to greet me.

 

Hide me in a room
with no windows.
Never let me see
the dolphins leaping
into commas

 

for this water-prayer
rising like a host
of sky lanterns into
the inky evening.
Let them hang

 

in the sky until
they vanish at the edge
of the constellations — 
the heroes and animals
too busy and bright to notice.