Iowa City Nocturne
Mario Duarte

Stalk of light, will your blonde hair
fade to white dreams?  Tonight, it is
below zero and the buzzing winds
blunt the branches spider-ing over
moonlit snow and solitude
has Mario tattooed on his chest.

Some say the dead and living are
inconsolable ― no one rolls
out alive.  Will I ever know
how to say it: Goodbye, I think,
of  your silver and blond tresses.

over a black poncho and what lips
between your tender thighs.  Am I
only talking to myself, again,
only grasping your hand again?
Under climbing vines, purple trumpets,

green hummingbirds ― you were the dream
of my broadcast.  Grant me one last kiss
while the snow crunches underfoot.
Where are you going? Don’t leave me
to the devices of a snow-wave

with my muzzle pressed to the ground.
Last night a broken branch crashed down
on the roof ― the wood splintered and
slate tiles broke and I was alone
for the first time ― unquenchable dream.

Mario Duarte is an alumnus of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and the University of New Hampshire. He is a member of the Latino Writers Collective in Kansas City. He has published poems in The American Poetry Review, The Carolina Quarterly, and Eclipse, among others, and has work forthcoming in Slab, and Broken Plate.

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