Brava, fogo, corpo, luaEleanor Stanford
after Mina Loy I lived in my head. Two years, the moon coming and going over Brava and the volcano. Another island in our pathetic archipelago. Every night I watched it rise over the island whose name means brash, or angry, or foolhardy. A rocky place we visited once, in a cold and fog-draped March. I lived in my head, my body could have grown wings or shed itself in a dry husk, for all I noticed. I lived in my lantern. Insects beat their flimsy wings around it. My head emitted a strange light. Regret is intoxicating. But once you’ve lost something, it’s all absurd. Marriage, children, funana. The boat’s frenetic two-step, barrel’s empty rib. I lived in my lantern. Outside, a goat licked the island’s moon-pocked cheek, and young girls moved in and out of view on the dirt road, carrying bundles of tinder on their heads.
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