Two Poems

by Elisa Albo

Epicurean Portraits

You tasted of caramel,
caramelo the hue of honey,
skin confection, sweet
cream. You rubbed
the hazelnut on my wrist,
took it into your mouth,
traced a trajectory
to my shoulder,
breastbone, nape.
You bit like tasting
a berry, picky,
with the tips of your
fine white teeth.

Peeled of my skin,
I once leaned into
the doorjamb, lifted
my thigh, held it high
for you to sketch
the lower angle,
your favorite puntica,
like a toast point,
crust trimmed.

Artist, creator,
when did you start
eating your creations?
You dented pots,
shorted out appliances,
ruined counter tops—
all for artistic effect.

I could see that—
until you set the whole
mess on fire, leaving
a charred smell,
smoke like a ripped
curtain, shreds
of canvas, flesh—
all fit for your collage,
nothing, no one
ever lost or wasted.

I’ll begin again.
You tasted of ashes.

 

After the Fight

She watches him slip out

          to the kitchen and open

               the freezer door. The cold

 

air like vapor from dry ice

          streams out around his body,

               his hips and legs, all she

 

can see, the half not hidden

          by the half door. He stands

               there, motionless, hungry

 

or thirsty or unsure. Lying

          on the bed, watching him,

               she imagines that everyone

 

is wrong about hell—fire,

          sooner or later, burns itself

               out. Hell is frozen. Wind

 

chills and dries out

          the bones, ice traps

               and preserves forever.

 

Elisa Albo was born in Havana, Cuba. She received an MFA from Florida International University. Her work has appeared in Poetry East, the South Florida Poetry Review, Zingmagazine and other journals. She teaches English, ESL, and creative writing at Broward Community College in Hollywood, Florida. She lives in North Miami Beach, where she is working on her first collection of poetry, What Memory Hears.

Tags:
latin american literature
BOMB 65
Fall 1998
The cover of BOMB 65
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