Five Poems by Yananda Rocha dos Santos
in the science books at school they still
that the tip
of the tongue was for what is sweet
discovery and now
the best lies
i save just for you
as you can see space is much
to contain meaning
of leather creaks and
vices holy as a priest
evaporate sooner than cheap perfume
Where Waves Draw the Line
the hobby is sinning and confessing
the audience is all priests
in a screenless booth under the sky
being cruel not meaning to be kind
but even waves have questionable
intentions and ever last
not emptied of scruples only
freedom has a touch of immortality
undulating stellar courages
that topple over into quivers
are rooted like clouds flowing towards
pleasures dangerous as being born
run-on errors colour
and make the world go round
he bares his feet
stripping for the ocean
chewing shivers like a cow
we’ve only had so many drinks
because the glass is so small and
we are not so dissimilar
i could swallow him whole
there is no word –
but a bad workwoman
blames her tools
I weave my corners in glittering threads,
each colour doing its job
instantaneous like gravity.
Places mine now alive
that for days had been invisible
swell dormant eyes.
Inside my radius they see garlands
speckled with residues
of stumbles past.
Like Kali, I have a few heads under my belt.
And now I don’t know if I cry
for the violin
the flute or the piano.
In the heat of solitude
I fan myself with expectancies
the world refuses to realise.
In any case,
of all the things the world can do
spinning east is what it does best.
The Stars are not Disposable like Roses
You hand me glasses full of craving
on litres of ice.
I have to sigh it out –
it comes at inconvenient times
like a hangover piss.
I’m tempted to say you are unique
but no one is that remarkable.
The sky is relentlessly new every time –
the stars are not disposable like roses.
They outlast us by worlds
withering like well-kept secrets.
They do not mind it.
In the case of you and me,
the venially forgotten is deadly –
and so it seems
we have a touch of the Lazarus.
But we are mostly common as roses –
I’m cheap in my generosity and offer you
the thing I know best, a trinket.
I’ve decided you deserve it.
I will give you it.