Synesthesia

Above the quiet pueblos and sand of New Mexico

and without the light pollution of slicker cities,

you wouldn’t believe the stars that hang in such a way, over Santa Fe:

some stalwart and white and brazen,

others tremulous and blue like fingers

of coral uncertain about what will happen tonight.

A breathing constellation,

like Juliet’s husband, if she had her wish

to cut him out into little stars

to make the face of heaven so fine…

we could sit here and gaze at one another if you’ll let me.

Some kind of synesthesia when you sing

I see stars light your insides, red and green.

Other times they’re white and pink flowerings

like the bouquet I brought to you in Queens.

Please forgive me. From this day on, only poetry

for the Cuban American girl from L.A. who can shake and sway.

Only poetry is deserving of how you set everything astir

like the cosmos.

Isn’t that how it all began?

Hydrogen and helium, the heat and light?

Your smile, your giggle, ebullient, sends me floating.

Let’s go and play. This language tries so hard to shimmer

but you and I have yet to shine,

yoked by the gridlines that do not govern stars.

Back East and at night, we could go swimming

with only the moonlit sky to light our faces;

arms and legs touching to keep you near.

We could float, on our backs to watch it:

that heavenly body, streaking and winking,

like some distant song that you and I were unable to hear

that I’ve only now had the proper way to say.

© 2020 by August D’Angelo