☀ Today's Poem: "Macabre Dance" Fiona Sze-Lorrain

On a night like this, I hear the spirit
in simple three-four beat. Even if my heart
gets tired believing. Almost naked,
standing in a barn. Now I understand
before and after giving. Da capo,
if the voice survives. Anxiety
and my navel trying to open
like a foolish eye. Sight and touch,
two battles to fight. I watch
the blur of a gray horizon shift
before dividing into two feral
zones. Coil a sash around
my groin to heal the snake in me,
slow passing of joy, in the midst
of ripeness. Of lust. Of reason.
Of penitence. Nipples large
and eager to please. With remorse
and quick glory. Moonlight loses
its greasy flex. The air smells young
but unsafe. I think of a one-legged
poet who brews glutinous rice wine
and writes about black goats
giving birth in the mountain heat.
Well-behaved in a fauve landscape—
among poppies and nomads who feed
them shamefully. Goats do not prepare
for rain or transition. They stand near
the graves because of their safeguard.
Waves toss in their eyes before sleep
or exercise. Helpless in a world where
the spirit moves the real. Where rain
tastes like a drug and is seen air by air.