Cynthia Cruz

PHRAMAKON

Here come the warships: the dream

object, a black cream, or

mourning, and always

referring back to death.

The other end of the dream

reminds me of Nachen, from the Greek

root, verus, upon which

bodies were laid out and left

to be buried at sea.

Breaking, again,

belongs to the shipwreck

and fasting, with its thick

black mourning.

The dream hides the saddest thoughts

of an unknown and mysterious future.

Low whisper to the voice of the water.

A blood-star like thick, cold liquid.

Luder, the only man remaining

after the twilight of the world.

SELF PORTRAIT WITH HORSE HAIR WIG

In the asphalt before the

when—

Horses whirr in a honey-

blonde blanket

of dream. Foxes,

and bottles of lemon

cream. Benzos and milk-

shakes, and hold your hand

child, until

the warm metal taste

in the mouth stops.

Still life with broken

radio: warm desert sun,

blue tile pool with black

water. Pale pink

ballet leotard, thick white

cream smeared on the face,

oversized crimson

gloss ribbon

holding the chestnut horse

hair back, away

from the face.

Rich crimson

leather interior

of goldening

Mercedes sedan.

White stockings in diamond

print.

A child’s sketch:

pale blue and powder

pink crayon on folded

and embroidered

newsprint.

Petroleum, whirr and

spin,

black-out.

Drop back

into the abyss,

the cut

and fracture

of everything—

memory.