by Rosana Garcia

He’s blowing a saxophone and telling me I got to soft,
a breeze that snakes as gray plumes into skies unbroken,
loves unstolen. Now it’s me moving into mellow Coltrane,
melting under the Lady’s voice, swimming upwards as air
climbs with my mind into sunsets that sink into my skin.
It’s bodies to music, passion to pianos lifted from smoky bars
of cool beer and spinning fans. Twirl of lemon on sweat,
cause it’s summer, baby, and we sneaking alone into
heavens made of stone, into castles of flowers tinkling
bells for morning tea. Buttercups we be honeyed into amber
sap, into waters that travel our bodies like rivers. It’s evening
and moons are rising over hills that don’t matter. Pale
oxygen hangs to breathe. The records play old melodies
from a time of war, when love was hard and sex was hidden.
I travel these days with his voice and I wish for porch steps,
a pack of cigarettes and a night sky. He’s blowing a saxophone
and I’m leaning back, swallowing stars and eating dreams.

(c) 2006 understar productions and Rosana Garcia