August Poem-A-Day: Day 31 (two for Tuesday)





A dwelling. A "'tween" where there is no sense,

only a dome. The hook of a tender spot houses

blood cells, little red appaloosas.  Floes around

the cinnamon trees dilly-dally, hot and conscious.


The opening's jowls, so weathered. So delicate

and chipped. The edge like a teacup's brim. The edge's

brine, slick with the in and out of the everyday.

Arc to the relentless wound growing upstream.

The terrible hollow. The swim of it.








The gauze in iodine, dabbed on the neck

to connect two small parts or commune

one periphery of the voice box to the other

for transmission of sound. To carry it liquidly.


The vibration of the liquid in the jugular

notch. The iodine in the ravine, humming

with the articulations of the neck. The neck

reclining to extend the chin upwards. As if

to speak. As if to bring the voice closer to the ear.


Oliver de la Paz