Looking for the Southern Cross
I’m not talking about the smell of coffee first thing in the morning
before curtains unleash the everlasting tropics over copper skin
& butter slow-motions deep into freshly baked bread;
bonfires in June when the wood cracks & explodes & amber fills up lungs
along cinnamon & warm wine. I won’t explain this is about the South of the Equator
ultra aequinoxialem non peccari- where there are no sins,
but pagan rituals associated now with the Catholic Saints
Anthony, John, Peter & Paul, whom I have neither kissed nor kept on ice.
(Other soft plaid flannel embraces, forever seventeen
spraying himself with 212 Sexy by Carolina Herrera.)
I’m not going to mention that ‘saudade’ is one of the most untranslatable words
out there, as if the definition itself was more important than the feeling
of a particular moment of dusk when the sun is still out. No
light pollution, the world turns the most mysterious shade of blue. The heart
twinkles: a sky that could never be unseen.