Lodestar Quarterly

Lodestar Quarterly
Figure reaching for a star Issue 14 • Summer 2005 • Featured Writer • Poetry

Closed Eyes/Universe

Neil de la Flor

For K. & L.

You said:

The last thing I remember you were a girl and your breasts were small.

She said:

Then everything you knew about me died when you became my brother. Now my hair and my eyes have fallen out. My breasts have turned into chalk hills.

You said:

But when I taste your nipple sister chalk turns into milk then into blood. Do you remember I swallowed your toes in bathtubs while July and August rode black mares and red and white Yamaha motor-bikes up Green Mountains? Fumes, grass and gnats filled your nose.

She said:

You sneezed. Mother waved delicate arms like moth-wings from the Green Valley below.

You said:

Home children, home, she huffed from the brick wood cabin chimney

She said:

nestled hidden in the forest surrounded by winding whirling creeks

You said:

and heavy black bear trails where the chimney smoked --

She said:

puffed-puffed away like grandfather's pipe

You said:

until fireflies burned out of kerosene

She said:

and fell out of the sky.

You said:

Then everything smelled like maple wood with closed eyes.

You said:

Sister, why did you become a mule?

She said:

I became a mule, brother, because that was the time.

You said:

What time was that?

She said:

The time my hands turned into rotting hooves dripping black oil as blacksmith hands hammered away at my soles.

You said:

Yet everything you taught me about mules died when I became you.

She said:

I remember that day, too, brother, like walking through spider webs.

You said:

All of a sudden I was barefoot.

She said:

I kicked the blacksmith in the face and galloped away as a moth.

You said:

You flew faster than the Big Bang.

She/You said:

So fast and wild we turned into a black sparrow.

She/You said:

Mother got so angry she smashed her man-fists against the wind like a God dam.

She/You said:

Stop them! Stop them! She shouted.

She/You said:

But we got away.

She/You said:

Until a wild gorilla woman-beast materialized and squashed us against her chest.

She/You said:

We wrestled ourselves out of her skin

She/You said:

and grew new wings

She/You said:

then ripped off our legs

She/You said:

sewed them under our eyes

She/You said:

so our hearts would never be separate again.

She/You said:

Then we heard a cry.

She/You said:

The splatter of blood.

She/You said:

But it was too late.

She/You said:

Time began to grow outside of us again.

She said:

Your wings broke off.

You said:

Your hooves too.

She said:

Black oil began to ooze out of my feet

You said:

where light angels burst out smiling, waving, until you fell asleep.

She said:

I dreamt of grandfather, fireflies mating, mother kissing my eyelids,

You said:

softly,

She said:

and the smell of kerosene.

You said:

Then everything you knew about yourself died

She said:

when I became your mother.

She said:

Brother, I died, but only for a moment.

You said:

Sister, you're leaking milk on my chest.

She said:

I know brother. It's time again.

You said:

To separate?

She said:

No, to open my boy's eyes.

You said:

You realize he will be hungry

She said:

and thirsty too.

You said:

What will you feed him?

She said:

I will feed him chromosomes.

You said:

And what will you call Closed Eyes?

She said:

I'll call him Universe.

Neil de la Flor

Neil de la Flor's work has appeared or is expected in Indiana Review, Hotel Amerika, Admit2, Scene360, 42opus, and Lodestar Quarterly. He is the managing editor of Mangrove and lives in Miami, Florida.

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