The Universe, According to Rufino Tamayo By Monica Rico

Past the breath that only stars have, I find myself
an open hand of night with pupils that eclipse the moon.

The blackness underneath my feet, not above where the sky is filled with sea.
My eyelash covers the arm of the galaxy with one word that means, here.

I shake my hair like a cloud and let the spirals of my curls dot the hereafter with quasars.
I have no need to crush darkness, only hold my hand out to it like the five
fingers of my lungs that also expand and collapse.

I have hidden my teeth for days. I’m afraid
they will spill and become silver streetlights in competition with the marble gleam of the moon.

My sharp points are a reminder that I am atmosphere.
The snap of my fingers make stars pulse.

The smashed lilacs of my eyelids crumble into the depths of the ocean
under moonlight and the whisper of the most delicate dove.

I fear I will never eat. I fear
my tongue will hang itself on an ice cube.

Marigolds are in front of me like pursed lips, the head
of a child that knows to look up, arms spread as an echo.

I may disappear, but if I spell my name,
I return like dusk and pray to never fall asleep.

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