Cindy Bousquet Harris
Let’s use our rainforest
voices as we sinew and vine
through kiwi colors,
listen to macaques, plantain squirrels
scuffle in the canopy
before the flash, the crack,
shreds leaves
to purple and blue.
I will shake you into bold
and bug-eyed patterns
scribbled on white-backed sky.
What about ribcage fronds,
the quiet pool,
dragonfly
that rests in plum shade?
Slice them a pie they won’t forget,
shell of indigo
tumbling past centipedes –
and drown out
those screeching mynas.
Only for a moment.
Even so.
Once, I dreamt I was a mandolin
strumming
above the storm.
Clamor 