the Magyar
the Magyar
I
out of revolution and a burning bed
she chose a summer somewhere else
Afrika, under a triumphant sky
where deep roots deliver the burnished dawn and gold leaf peels from the sea
to hang in links about her neck
II
ripe with life, she brings with her
the motherliness of milk and the flamboyance of spring in veal, pink with secrets,
incurably plain potatoes, honest gherkins
and all the poetry of the table in dumplings that have no gift for shape
III
when a suspicion of the moon shrivels up and I am sunk inside myself, Her love leaps from hand to hand to unravel from me broken nights, suicide, love and other disasters
She is a cliff I leaped from
into childhood's steady air; a dance
I inhabit where ladies smooth their lace and fix their hair and I learn to know
my walk is in my hips
©Gina
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