My Dearest Garcia Lorca,
the starchy quietness of my room is louder than the anatomy
of swans reflecting elephants. since i came back from Paris
the land outside my window is a parched mermaid contortionist.
if not for the hymns of my shyness, the fulcrum of our swords
would cross. pain is the architecture of loneliness, soft and hard
boiled eggs, and the small conversations i have with myself.
what constitutes denial is gathered up in cloves of phantom
ships. if not for the stories of my shyness, Gala would have never
been my wife. when i look at my basket of bread, i see the vacillating
face of war — when i masturbate to Mae West’s lips, i long to call
you from a poached lobster telephone. if not for the persistence
of my memory, i could not paint the hidden corals and conches
for you. ants and ants, but even my subconscious is not patient
enough for your poetry. my brittle heart is a bobbing turtle’s head,
the tip of my tongue, chalk, whitened from silence. what is regret
but desire for chance — diaphanous dragonflies and monochromatic
confessions. the olive wind whispers your name in sierra, and i hate
that it haunts me. there is no truth in longing, only urgency. tonight,
the Catalan lights shine on binary breasts of roses, and still, i live in
the drawers from the burning giraffe and penumbra of your absence.
Jax NTP holds an MFA in Creative Writing, Poetry from CSU Long Beach and teaches Critical Thinking & Composition at Golden West College, in Huntington Beach, CA. Jax reads poetry and fiction for The Offing Magazine and edits poetry for Indicia Lit. Jax’s words have appeared in Cordite Poetry Review, Apogee Journal, and 3:AM Magazine.