Mi sueño, you think I don’t know you,
the scar bright, the piercing surprise
but I do, as I know blue diamond-dust rain
sparking on the amber candles of crucifers,
as I'm skinned by the one atom of brain
that guides the devouring mandible
or your bells of lips, your aluminum eyes,
rouged with the fever of Lucifer.
I know each black strand of the pile
you crosscut for the velvet mask;
I wove it myself, wore it myself
in autumn moon and blood, to hide, to show
only the wells from which we drink. I think
you don't know me, my dream, but you do.
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Sunday Mini Challenge: The Sonneteers
Kerry O'Connor has managed to penetrate the fog I've been in of late with her examination of two poets born in July, Petrarch and Neruda, who excelled in their own interpretations of the sonnet form. Despite the rough rhyme and stanza breaks, I doubt whether this is really any kind of sonnet, but many thanks to Kerry, and to the poets who responded to this challenge, for inspiring me to write when I thought I couldn't.
Image: Cauldron Of The Sorceress, by Odilon Redon, 1879
Public Domain, via wikipaintings.org