Tag Archives: Lisa Marie Basile

Sea

In my bones little bits of beach, ripe organs of Cataluñya in my teeth the sorrow of   missing something you do not know so well, night butterflies coming out of my stomach and blood, at home where the sea is   troubled and … Continue reading

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Barceloneta

When the sea was broken we found a dollhouse near Barceloneta. It was people-sized and babies tried to crawl in, porcelain golden babies, and looked at us through the slats. We made a sarong into a door, and the babies … Continue reading

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III

She is the sniper of two suns, pulled in a carriage by a tired pony, drinks milk from a vase at her doorstep as infants wail into dead breasts. She envisions the hearts of bodies still thumping in morgues after … Continue reading

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Gael II

His mother yells from the back of the hot kitchen, and she has big hips, is bringing new breads into our bassinet mouths. He (Gael) brings the equator with him all the time. He is a dark sun man, naked, … Continue reading

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Gael I

Gael, your mother is hanging white linen sheets on the line on the lawn and her body is big and wide and open, the shape of summer. I want her to be jealous of me. When she had you,    you … Continue reading

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