Airborne jet of yellow . over the Mystic River. Some ones seem carmine the ones without any roar. Are they captives of some lesser sun? They’re in a song we sang when we were still young. On a downtown landscape sometimes a blue building or an old crumbling tower. You're the defeated artist who’s in search of a cure. I come to join recklessly your cause at its junction. I don’t want to stumble divided and conquered. I seek your recognition as someone who pilfers the coffers of Christians.
Thirst For Brown Water
There’s healthy sense in absence of intention. These surfaces break quick time. This pool soon grows cold swimming within a frame It’s seen in bad dreams but its contours altered to mute heckling within.
They tell their story, of restless swallows. In a random moment, wearing rough haloes. They felt oddly, about their gods. Counting on the arrival
Morning of the 27th
Your shape tended to render sameness to all your moods all your darkness. You made sure you spent time putting me at ease. In a few stars, I bear witness. past the minaret, Those past the dome, ones past the minaret. A satyr shadowed, one half is divine, another half is odd among gods. Gods worshipped older, often naive, rooted in rudeness.
Bright ones remark, there's always a sky playful each morning. Only one sky, but frozen, issuing what came before to take liberty with virtue.
I worry I will never be a woman like you.
I have not mastered the breathy pitch nor
The come hither drawl that slipped between
Your ruby shined lips
I am no femme fatale,
no temptress in a slinky black dress.
I wish the red lacquer stayed on my
nails, that I’d never bite them or scrape off
the polish. And I feel like such a child
when I see photos of you, only 20
perfectly put together, already
hourglass, dewy skin and bee-stung lips
But you were still more—dancing away the night
in Spain, seducing bullfighters with those
dangerous eyes. The smirk of a woman
who beat a self proclaimed chess master
the first time you played a game. His ego
was so bruised he never played you again.
Cellophane and Dismayfor Mel
Early March—I felt like petals unfurled
in my ventricles and atria. Bouquets
of brightly colored flowers, burst
through my chest. I am opening—
blossoming with purgation.
I welcomed you with offerings
of Olea europaea cradled near my waist.
Come let’s shed a feud ruled by an empty man.
Your best friend said I haunted your thoughts too
during that Denver November. I was not alone
on the qui vive—rivals for someone who didn’t
know how to love. To anyone who would ask—
he was your former paramour, both of you volatile
elements exploding when you soaked your skin
in vodka and beer on lonely nights. But those moments
were long distance—I was a witness, lying next to him
when his phone would shine with your 5AM messages,
3AM calls—and these mushroomed into the pandemic
meadow of 2020, two years beyond the few months
you said you were the black mold in the corner of the room.
That facade is eternally fragile, and decaying.
I foolishly thought this would be more than a frigid peace—
that candor would flow like honey from the hive on late a June
or early July afternoon. That we could both be children
finding sagacity under the full Strawberry moon.
I am the daughter of the messenger god;
the Moirai have sent me to untangle the threads
in your hand. You like to stall when you must undo
the knots you create; fear a life without turmoil.
You tell everyone you are chaos in a martini glass,
encourage them to watch you spill on asphalt,
on canvas, on your ex’s sweat covered dirty duvet.
Pretend your drool is really his glittery cum—
your audience eagerly awaits the peep show.
None of this is original; it rained starseeds
into your mind. I tend to my garden nightly—
as they sprout in the soil of your dreams;
even then some buds shrivel or rot.
Now I am tasked with delivering your next idea
to your hotel room. I place the Eight of Wands
in your palm as you wait for your newest paramour
to pour you champagne. Take the journey of 500
miles; design your life—watch the yarn unravel
flow freely into yonder. This was always going to happen.
A Fresh Start
We drunk poison from the lips of those we love—
looked into the vast horizon at lives
that had only been mirages in the afternoon sun.
Let’s start a side business
as fortune tellers for the end of the world.
We’ll read palms on the beach,
trapped in an eternal sunset,
the sky rose-gold—forever on fire.
Lovers will still want to know
what stars connect—if they are bound
by the constellations or devoured by
black holes at the edge of the universe.
Watch the heavens melt like molten lava.
Hold my hand as we stand on the brink
of the Autumn Apocalypse, waiting to be devoured.
Bio: Marisa Silva-Dunbar's work has been published in Better Than Starbucks Magazine, Chantrelle's Notebook and Pink Plastic House. Marisa is the co-editor of the anthology "Kirstofia." She has work forthcoming in Sledgehammer Lit Mag, and The Daily Drunk Mag. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris. You can find more of her work at www.marisasilvadunbar.com .
2nd bio: Marisa is a Latina poet from the Southwest. Receiving an M.A. in Poetry from the University of East Anglia. Marisa also has work published in IceFloe Press, Mineral Lit Mag, Rising Phoenix Review, and Ghost Heart Lit.
A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Marisa Silva-Dunbar