Poem: Wearing His Red Faja

Wearing His Red Faja

By Lee Ballentine
QuailBellMagazine.com

she has gone out carrying a white gourd
like a lunar fragment covered with dust
she has gone down the hallway of his house in the dark
down its faces of old tambourines and clocks
and tracks of frazzled lightning
and she has gone
out the door of the house he returns to like a dog
returning to the grave of its dead master

and through which she has now gone out now
into the ruptured light the light of oiled silk
and burning parchment day
she went out of his door with a little bow at the waist
facing the house one last time
like some unidentified bone cracked over at the middle
and now she has gone
down the dark vault of the tides dressed in salt
where details of the past are composed by fishes
gone down by the convex varnish of oranges
down by the galaxy bleeding
to where the thread of return is broken
and there she stands for a moment
rubbing some blood off her face with a piece of bread

she has gone out
past the custodians of landscapes
past the indifferent salutes of the indifferent
gone down the dirt road of the handkerchief forest
through drowsing hungers and wrought iron beds
where she benched sometimes for mere comfort
and where she has sometimes bathed
and dried off with old newspapers stained by paint
she has gone out the bookseller's door
through the black tresses of armchairs
past the veterinary hamlet and the salesman's tolstoy
past the arabian mounts of the chorrojumo
and past the books of telephones and flowers
out of his door and up the alley
of the sellers of precious stones and dog turds
slipping over the balcony of the shadow of morning
into the abyss of forged iron
into the vitreous perfumery of salmon
into the cape of the itinerant photographer

through the black irises of her own eyes
through the shallow calculus of strangers
through the voices of the wool cleaners, the calgidjis
and down the street of the coffee pot makers
she has, often gone down into the abdomen of her fiddle
down its bow made with her mother's hair
down these medicines of rancor
through the hole in the tongue of the manguey
through the hole in the temple of chaplin's skull
through the continual rain of nebulae
and the foam in the surf of christendom
to where she drinks the midnight tea of ghosts
to where, girt in fire
she bathes in the sputum of the sun

and she recalls the beautiful clothes in his closet
and how she took something from among them . . .
to where in daylight she carries a sword
to where in darkness she sings with a tongue of ashes
and drinks down the strange syrup of the hearts of virgins
who are made to wear the zona
out of the place where she swallowed the frog's tears
out from where she drank down the liquor of assault
out of the place where she ate dry
the cooked liver of contempt
she has gone on with her gifts of loneliness's pikes
and anger's falchions
and from them fashioned a bed

she has gone down O YES!
long ago she left but before she left
out of the teeth of the jealous stars
she ground a powder of delirium
and dissolved it in her piss mixed with brandy
and gave it to the man who had already
dined on her heart
before she covered her head with this dirty scarf
and went out into the street of proliferent shouting
through the hurled epithets
and through the memory of oysters
and through thoroughfares of murder
to where she sings the strophes of exile
and her heart is full of the recompense of longing
wearing his red faja

#Unreal #Poetry #Revenge #Imagery #Journey #Darkness #Light #Faja #Sexuality
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