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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Shauna Barbosa - To the Brothers of Cesária Évora

I’m at the jazz bar

staring at the saxophonist

looking for the entry wound.

My curated movements

are all pretend


darkness don’t equal depth.

He’s looking for mind, too.

Me too is not the same

as hang in there. All rhythm

no blue like swinging


arms are all form of measurement.

The sax to body position, dead skin

cells to household dust

flying across the world

doesn’t compare to noticing

your only bookmark is a pair

of scissors, to cut


means leaving the big tune.

No more pretend this place

smells how it looks outside

at dawn on September’s first



turning from hopeful to who

can I talk to alive or six-feet under.

Curated sendoff,


one last wound tune

for my brothers, all colors ranging

bread, coffee, blood sausage, and

gaslight. No one wants


a black mouth brother

I know, you don’t want to be

cause it’s difficult to be

black, Sis



speaking Portuguese at the traffic stop

won’t save you.

Shauna Barbosa - Small Town & Terrifying

If I listen to the news tonight, I won’t come.
On mute the television anchor exchange sounds
like, Do you remember what you used to do.
Looks like, Do you remember what we did to you.
I think the lady anchor’s saying, I’m the only
taste you can describe without referring to notes,
my scent, the way home without roads. Man
anchor thinks she needs a new city dipped in holy
overcast, daily drama, and daily migraines
false remedied with vinegar, washcloth, cold water.
If I unmute, I could unfocus the idea of private
property. In Santo Antão, when a landowner’s
animal wanders into or destroys the garden
of her neighbor, the owner of the garden seeks
punishment. I await penalty on his lap.
In Boston, everybody’s plan out is to flip houses.
I’ll pay for the part of my elaborate pretending,
but there’s no faking, I prefer my eggs over easy
I just can’t make them easy for myself.