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Micaela Camacho-Tenreiro
NATUR MORT
after Amalia Caputo
The night’s gown drags across the sky.
Allow me to compose myself: I’m the inkling of an opera.
Like smoke, an ice queen rises from her throne,
Drunk off the tears she drank from her chalice.
Once, on a date, a man gave you a trumpet of dead flowers,
Certain that your love would be beautiful,
Even in the end. Inside of every loneliness is an hourglass
That can only be cured by seawater.
(The moon’s no comfort without her orchestra.)
In hopes of becoming a star, an artist gambles his teeth.
Out or outside of time, the audience holds their breath —
The silence, velvet-smooth.