House, Coyo
Atacama Desert
Two men talking about sex, drunk,
splattering words like spells –
they’ll bring in the culandero,
the woman with fangs –
Somebody has given herself
prematurely. Somebody has fallen off
a swing. Somebody knows the timing’s
almost always wrong –
And the dead are lining up
for counsel. Beyond the house,
the cordillera’s red caves are
openings for wail and squall –
Women shudder, their mouths
erupt over tectonic plates, turning layers
of gypsum into arrowheads.
Men splatter words –
Voices spiralling
in the dusk. Somebody has fallen off
a swing. Somebody knows the timing is
almost always wrong –
The house, an oasis
of tattered starlight. Someone’s flattening
the night for comfort. Someone burrows
its true darkness.
Abigail Ardelle Zammit’s two collections are Voices from the Land of Trees (Smokestack, 2007) and Portrait of a Woman with Sea Urchin (Sentinel Poetry Publishing, 2015). Her poems appear in Tupelo Quarterly, Boulevard, Gutter, Matters Monthly, The SHOp, amongst others. (abigailardellezammit.