"my mandarina" by @suntara - do not repost
meet me in the back, my mandarina
let's live in lost colours tonight
spend constellations undressing
every similie this song has to offer
one day we'll have our own
tangerine corvette and double doors
I'll tattoo my secrets between my fingers and
you can find fragments of my love
in the peel of half eaten oranges
let's runaway from these
runaway rundown towns
be my world, my inconsequential,
my ones, my twos, my eights
let's pretend we're shadow puppets
bound to a black and white
let's pretend this convenience store
is a ballroom
bound to a refraction
I'm terminally ill with the human condition,
this heartbeat highway has nothing on
our rundown tangerine truck
this world has nothing on
the bag of oranges in the back
on us, on forever, on cloud nine
and ten and eleven and twelve
want to dance in the rain with me?
when the citylights shift under the
dusty asphalt roads
and building love songs dim
let's keep singing in the car
to that one song
I'd invent all over again (for you)
i love you like a wooden spoon
i love you like a family recipe
you love me like the secret ingredient
a million memories paint my face
and you know every last one
in my mothertongue's missteps
we're terminally ill with rememberence
of friends, foe, flora, fondness, flaws
eight years, a thousand miles away
we make castles out of cardboard boxes today
recycle them tomorrow, take out the trash
feed the cat, give the neighbours their cookbook back
we read out our pretentious poetry
to each other,
whisper them between cardboard windows and
cardboard curtains
we'll take in the universal experiences
between our wor(l)ds
we'll build them cardboard nurseries that will
grow into cardboard bedrooms
we'll raise them as our own,
give them your surname
my eyes, your hands, my smile
we'll make them forever, make them always
do their laundry, feed them oranges
wash the stains from their shadows and
polish their shoes
good morning my mandarina,
i want to read our living room floor with you
like the daily newspaper
I'll find carpet stains from spilled orange juice and
you'll find dents from the weight of
that coffee table your dad gave us long ago
this poem isn't about love,
but love is all over it like
lipstick kisses on collars
fingerprints on flowers, rain on city windows
we're terminally ill with a love that will outlast us
there's never going to be another forever
like this one
there's never going to be another forever
i want to remember like this one
(everyday is a fairytale with you)
in another universe,
where there's no running away
I'll write your name on my palms
and pray till it remembers mine
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not lords, but children
*
in a yet stumbling gait
walking the plains, the high & byways
of our paved paradise
hoping to arrive
at an idyllic destination; the place
where we may receive our crowning glory,
storied & retold in scribes & myths.
yesterday, it was made
crystal clear to me upon arising
when the power failed
& no number of frantic calls, urgent emails,
or shouted exhortations to the heavens above
could deliver to me - in my trembling hands
the verdict - what i then loathed to hear
& have now learned to love like a long-lost friend
adrift at sea, head bobbing above the surface
surprisingly, while you’re wading.
manual labor becomes a prime mover
a return to Eden - so to speak -
where we’re pristine, independent & so forth...
so when we meet & happen to bump into...
bring all your longing, that pent-up pressure
you’ve lived;
& we can garden together, hand shovels at the ready
working our magic in the mulch, or in sandboxes
with the buckets - not as lords - but like children
at play.
*
7/22 - lebuc - not lords, but children
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