Sophia Terazawa
| THREE POEMS

WANDERLUST

Opus, meaning labor or divine, half-moon tilling virgin ground, open the crevasse of ice-swept thighs, we named him baku-san, after the way, in our sleep, he devoured a dream with his tiger paws and rhinoceros eyes, then hiccupped at the menarche, our surge of lining, salty, red and thick, thread, glass and light, light, light.

FRONTAL

Erase the line,
or at least,
the image of it,
the line being
execution as I
remember:


taupe, mauve,
dove, tulip tree,
cream, touch,
its grave or
morning after,
timbered.

· · ·

Wasp on my eyelid,
the sun, her blood red singe.

Patience.

You’ll get what you paid for,

rising against a smokestack sky,
the negative space or pedagogy.

For example, this hook above a floating rib,
this premonition: magnolia pink, concrete,
the lawn, a wall of Casablanca grey, its floors,


graphite.

· · ·

Walk to the courtyard.
One fountain is there,
empty for the season.
I shiver, shifting steel
in my mind, a paper
spread in four parts,

absent sight, rather,
swollen shut, the face
upon it. I pull a knitted
wool collar up against
my argyle nose, a tent,
the crest, its peak.

A block of ice tastes
like brass in my mind.
Fold the spread with
fountain’s donut ring,
the wind over its spout,
star fall, my scalp.

· · ·

Tea becomes a jasmine gold.

I stand full frontal, the cup in one hand,
my fingers through its handle like a pistol,
my nipples, made of copper. Inflame.

REPOSE

White-knuckled and delirious,
you steer us home, but not my home,
the laurel or your victory.

I plummet, erect, face-down.

I sleep. The car floats onward. You take
my hand and sniff its spine, then gasp on your way up
my thumb. Relax. You don’t know me,

the years I burned to sexless pain.

Relax. My name is lost to you.
I danced when no one called me mad and laughed
when they all called me mad,
and you, the best of them:

the beard and slouch, that ugly grin,
your grunts, stray pubes, the yeah? yeah? yeah?,
your bland and flaccid jaw.