Hello Friends,
I once wrote a poem that included one woman's hip fitting into another woman's side like the curve of South America returning to the crook of Africa — which I think is why I am a sucker for today's sonnet "Asleep You Become A Continent" by Queer Latino poet and San Francisco native Francisco Aragón.
Many people learning to write get taught not to mix metaphors — but then sometimes you grow up and learn to break all the rules beautifully.
Enjoy.
Ellen
asleep you become a continent—
undiscovered, mysterious, long,
your legs mountain ranges
encircling valleys, ravines
night slips past your eyelids,
your breath the swaying of the sea,
sprawled across the bed like
a dolphin washed ashore, your mouth
is the mouth of a sated volcano,
O fragrant timber, how do you burn?
you are so near, and yet so far
as you doze like a lily at my side,
I undo myself and invoke the moon—
I'm a dog watching over your sleep
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