O pôr-do-sol é bonito.

You fired a thousand moments bejeweled
with an after-breath from a coma,
and I was miles away from home
like a dead man with no bones
or a mother to weep for.

Above rooftops, where dust walked
with death-sheets and white teeth,
birds sat quietly, dreaming of
their broken nests made of hair and dirt,
colored in yolks and God's saliva.

I remember walking with a womb,
our child missing, waves of sirens
decorating street lamps and sidewalks,
draining us of our flesh and blood.

Mãe shot like a bullet from her lips
and dribbled down my earlobes
as we wept for soundless hours.

Caminhemos de mão dada, you slobbered in tears,

and we marched to the ryes of nowhere.
We let fireflies explode in our hair,
kissed as our jaws clicked,
and slept as the sun fell.

Tenho saudades tuas, we dreamt.

And how your face ballooned like a doll,
eyes slithered behind lids,
foretelling the birth of the sky
as a titanic of celestial bodies,
and stars like children with blue faces.

They hung like embryos with silver necks,
brewing hands and feet to hold mothers.
I placed my chiseled palm upon your left breast
and we held nothing in our chests.

We drummed our fingertips on the dirt,
spines spitting out from our backs
like twigs tangled in loose thread,
and we parted our views by sleeping on our sides.

And I remember your sore tongue
from swallowing too hard, my head on your belly,
listening for the echoes of her kick,
and how we dug our knuckles into the ground
instead of each other's throats.

Meu deus, como o nascer-do-sol é bonito, she would say.