Aroma at Sunset


By Sara Aranda

Aroma at Sunset

The sun never settles
like us, and
our subtle foaming taste of dirt.

Somewhere someone is falling
down a mountain
down a river
down a desert hole
bottom of the ocean
marine snow tracing breath on an icy window
as if sternums of moss would grow;
loving wildly, the death
that dreams boughs of itself
across the horizon
as if the iris of the sun
did not blind me to an Earth
in endless, obligatory root.

But my fingers touch
what the sun will never know:
this aroma of flushed petrichor
and mountain forget-me-nots
kneading truth or dares as it passes—

the way we don’t dream death
as children, the way I lean
into the wind with my shirt over my head—
back to the budding breasts of me
I become a silhouette
in sprouting fractal
to this orange waning sky,
pen ready at the hip
but blood of your blood
I dare not write you with shame.




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