04/20/2011
Broken Hummingbird Heart
"You die & so do I—
."
A sentence flits away from Ana Maria's period,
knotted stems choking floral embroidery,
each word racing to a hole in my pillow case @
1260 beats per minute.
My mouth trickles or drips. Other hummingbirds swoop,
dazzling my brain,
suspending suburban malaise. TEARLESSNESS.
My beak returns to Ana Maria's throat. Feeding.
On cloudy nights when she dies again I have to perform such dives—
rose-colored blur
thudding on a pillow. I can't be any wetter than the line
"I get depressed after masturbating."
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OurSpace
Ana Maria's Space still exists
I hold onto her mouse & dash through lightning
Fleeting eyes behind screens
Drown & surface
Ana Maria & I are clicking so fast our tails can't catch up with us
Drop in the mud
It is not a hacker we pursue
Or a wireless connection to bathe in
We want a waterfall in the Space we digitize together
I maximize windows when Ana Maria throws a seed at me
Keep MySpace blank for her
Her body had to spread when she died
Across webbed sites
Screensavers
A National Geographic special that re-enacted the attack
A rainy garden
A hundred tears I cried in Spain
After getting the Skype call
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Your Valley: My Anus
A thousand horns whose pointed tips graze our calves as we twirl & laugh.
Sheep circle us like mirrorballs.
"You're the only other boy in the world."
My face reddens then my hair. Blood spurts out of what was blue skin.
Ground so slick we're afraid to keep dancing I'm a puddle after you speak. Smeared &
melted lipstick over hooves.
I smile at you—ripple—while a million
multi-colored balloons rise in the sky you see them on my surface filled with California
light.
The sheep soak the light up they kneel on me.
My blood mixes with their fleece their bodies turn pink.
While fireworks explode you don't feel alone with your sheep.
You just want the fireworks to change the color of flowers branches crows.
You wait for a rainbow to accompany the disco it goes on after I'm dry in the choir of
sheep.
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Wax Brazilian
Wind swirls words like Cum here but I'm not naturalized.
I am a mottled presence from the Amazons of crying.
I hate the Ashbery Bridge it's too hot in my body to stand still & read in Minneapolis.
I stain surfaces with my sweat ejaculate a sigh O my father land!
I drink the milk of older sloths who lift their shirts for me, their sheets.
A jaguar draws a line in my belly & splits it.
A child pops out. My family spills out of zoology.
I stop trimming pubic hair so my forests feel thick again.
With crabs, claws—they protect my juicy fruits.
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Lucas de Lima is an MFA candidate at the University of Minnesota. He writes about shame, animals, and vibration on the multi-author blog Montevidayo.com. His reviews and poems have appeared in Scrivener Creative Review, Mudfish, Rain Taxi, ABJECTIVE, and Action Yes.
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