By Gabriela Anaya Valdepeña
Would it be paradise or only purgation
to be nailed by you beneath the cherry blossoms?
Fortune or crime, that I, too wise or too
Afraid, won't dare attest your lips' promise?
Don't ask, or I will lie: I've never dreamt
your sagacious beard, your tortoise pic asleep
on my sill, my hair spread long across your belly,
your guitar trembling in my bed's shadow.
Both balls, and milk, will blue waiting for me
to come to you. You are no Washington —
though you'd never chop the tree to spite the shade
shielding my shy skin from the sun, a lie
is not beneath you, to have me lie beneath
you for a term. But passion's politics
won't reach beyond the steps of my white heart.