Still Life

By Roberto Tejada

We’d often
been included in
 
the weather, whose
changes (as in the
 
still, portending
darknesses of after
 
noon) were hardly
evident, if even
 
manifest at all.
The August rain
 
over Mixcoac
& the deadening
 
of all aspect
at a distance:
 
yet our sudden
wet bodies, firm
 
swelling divested
finally of shirts
 
& trousers, left
beside turbid
 
footprints on
the tiled floor;
 
this tongue, these
lips the lightning
 
over the unchartered
landscape of your
 
thigh: successive
terra nova to
 
resist the still
life of the body

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