In the morning at sunrise in Iguazu Falls
I’ll die as water rushes down on me,
taking away my breath, filling my lungs.
Tourists will be watching, snapping Polaroids.
On an Argentinian morning I’ll watch myself
in the beautiful falls that engulf my being.
Music will be playing as I tango without
a partner, my shoes well-crafted and fanciful.
My moves will be graceful as I motion for the
waterfall to wrap its shimmering shape around
my ankles and pull me in for one last time …
while an artist paints a picture of the falls.
Napowrimo prompt #3:
Here’s a third prompt for those of you who like to get ahead of the curve. This one is adapted from Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones, a book my parents gave me when I was 14 or so and they noticed I was constantly scribbling things down. So here goes: Cesar Vallejo wrote a pretty famous poem that begins with him saying that he will die in Paris, in the rain, on a Thursday (different translations from the Spanish make it hard to quote precisely in English). So go ahead and write a poem predicting your own death — at night in Omaha at the Shell Station, in an underwater Mexican grotto after a dry spell. It’s less morbid than you think!
Red Wolf Journal Spring 2014, and a fresh start
2 years ago