WAITING FOR ALMA KARMINA
like lilies opening
often in the night,
or the hills of
roses. sweeter
than my tangerine
flowers suddenly
there where
weeks ago there
was nothing, she
is like the word
becoming flesh,
film developing.
Alma Karmina B
where there was
nothing, a soul, a
bud, a song. An
outline, first
the licorice
eyes emerging
like a face
in the dark |
ALMA
calla lilies and roses
cartwheel on her
bunting under
woven crimson
cloth. Behind her
kohl eyes, who
knows what dreams
grow. Emerald
and jade thru
shutters, she
clutches a plastic
ring as other
fingers long to
hold her, to
circle her in
arms, be the
ring her life
will slide into
easily as the
moon over her
almond skin,
like their love |
ALMA KARMINA
singing without words
while the ones longing
for her wait for
her to turn their
words to singing.
The birds have started,
light's coming back.
Somewhere in a jungle,
rose mist. She is on her way
Now the stillness of waiting,
the darkness of her hair |
AWAITING ALMA
Like March, something
thaws, catches its
breath. I think of
blown glass giraffes
a heart beat could shatter
someone waits for her
breath, for the words to
be skin, her eyes,
obsidian flowers
Someone can almost taste
her hair, has memorized
rose bud lips
They touch her photograph
the way you touch moonlight |
| ON THE FIRST NIGHT OF MARCH IT'S NOT ICY BY 7
I think of Alma Karmina
behind a lattice of
swallows, deep under
crimson quilts. A flower,
jewel waiting for
fingers to claim her,
precious and rare,
a treasure in her
new setting. Some
where else subways
roar instead of
jaguars, some
where past volcanos
and dark sand,
fingers that long
for her feel
her soul, a song
in them about
to begin |
ON THE METRO BACK FROM BALLET
I think of the cities
in Guatemala, Puerto
Barrios, Puerto San Jose,
Puerto Quetzel. Not
knowing Spanish, I
imagine it close to the
French APorte the
door or maybe it's
close to meaning
something small, a
small San Jose, a small
Barrios. Or maybe
it's coast, something
on the edge of. I
think of Alma, a door
into, a way, a small
treasure, her
licorice hair,
crimson mouth,
mysterious as words
in a language I
don't know,
blossoming
with possibilities |
SOUL SONG FOR ALMA KARMINA
not a bluesy blues
but rose colored,
crimson. A song
of coming to you.
Bright strands
woven with suns,
lips and lilies,
bright Guatemalan
cloth. Past volcanos
and Mayan temples,
a song from rain
forests and swamps,
emerald grass
lands. Not a song
with heavy stones
in its mouth but
a dancing song, Alma
waiting for the ones
wanting her singing,
her onyx hair, the
river she floats
north to them on |
ALMA KARMINA
past volcanos and
Mayan ruins, past
early mist camouflaging
temples, Alma Karmina,
her eyes lids delicate
as butterfly wings.
She sleeps under
sun and stars, jaguars
and pumas woven
with red birds, her onyx
hair, a river, tawny skin
wrapped in crimson
and sun, a gift
for the fingers
dreaming her |