From the Series Verses for (Dead) Artists
by Cameron Shaw
The wind puffed the Chinese cemetery,
petals laced the ground
and your tattoo slid
into a backbend blow, horns glowing
on that jukebox idol,
false and alone and crumbling.
The island is blessed but the journey is short,
you said, so make haste young Americans.
I spoke of fronds veiling the children,
black as olives in cans—if you don’t eat the youth
whose soul will you save?
Maybe you were right on time
for the movie or a bit early, staring
at the screen waiting for frames that were still
moving too fast to stay clear.
It’s not time that warps the basement.
It was underground that we learned to fly
and knocked out our front teeth.
I was blue and you were red,
the car was slinking, thrashed,
a thread that burned like embers falling—it was almost like kissing the moon.
Cameron Shaw is a Brooklyn-based writer on her way to New Orleans.
