Macaw

Macaw
with painted eye koi pond
plunged into the amphitheater
with three day shadow black

rhinoceros beak like that
gnarled tongue like that
 
glottis stop on the verge
not like this is how
I am going to lose you but this is
 
how I have lost you already, now
foot in mouth macaw
with pipe cleaner bumper bar
 
mustachio ara militaris
thick throated m mexicana
with kind of like presumptuous
 
leprechaun suited cobbler
foot on crank
grasping the last
 
hoarding your dollars
wings hunckered
emphysematic, you
 
squawking about drafts
while in my imagination
el guacamayo your
 
spread and sweep
not like this is how
I am going to lose you
 
pistachio and green apple
with golden and blue rider
yoked back flying, on Sunset
 
panhandling and Christ like
piñatas and red or throwing
stained glass and talavera, kitchen
 
benches and the whole enchilada
over the rail such colors we were
 
now mountain valley jungle pass


Rose.HunterRose Hunter is the author of [four paths] (Texture Press 2012), and to the river (Artistically Declined Press 2010). She is from Australia originally, lived in Canada (Toronto) for ten years, and now lives in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. She keeps a photo blog at rosesfotosdeldia.wordpress.com.
 
 
 
 
 
 


 
 
 

 

 

 

Amapas

And how you sat at the bar right
there. That spot that was your spot
with amapa flowers in bunches
freshly smashed and pink
 
cherry blossom umbrellas
semi transparent, negligee
or your thin skin. Lapacho, also, why not
 
because we were such wild ones?
even such would have
stopped for a moment, I remember
the underwater bump and bubble
more like a tinaco I can’t hear
what you’re doing I can’t see
what you are; open mouth
amapa trees
 
in bloom; the end of high season
is approaching and I feel feathered again
 
to be one of those who know a place
well enough to make statements
that don’t mean a thing but a shrug
 
the heat is coming.
it will send the tourists scuttering…
 
and the lottery, when will be
the first day of rain? it won’t be
the person with most time who wins.
 
Jaguar cobblestone and rushing river; a road
is something for wading, what else
 
instead I told a story like
it was here you hit your head
one time and not in dancing with me
but lighting a cigarette, your forehead
and the bridge of your nose
 
freshly smashed and the pink
spider veins on your face.


Rose.Hunter

Rose Hunter is the author of [four paths] (Texture Press 2012), and to the river (Artistically Declined Press 2010). She is from Australia originally, lived in Canada (Toronto) for ten years, and now lives in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. She keeps a photo blog at rosesfotosdeldia.wordpress.com.