Lourdes Ramos

The Rhine turns its shore

I am on a train from Berlin to Hamburg
watching the pines wend far behind me,
as if they were always in the past. Rain careens
off the eaves of rural houses,
and I think of you much further West
than I am, by a window shrouded in
willows wicking off July afternoon heat.
Across the table from you is a plate of plain scrambled eggs,
off season figs, and their wasps. Only to myself I wonder
how tired you must be of me,
and that just about kills me.
I think of you in your morning, without
your glasses reading the news, listening
to acoustic music and kettling,
sitting on your legs like you always do,
without me ever crossing your mind.
The train, as it must, follows its track North.
I imagine this is what splits me from you. And then
I try not to think of you at all, rebury you
like the Rhine turning its shore.

A Kamayan Love Spell

Balanced on the bed, two chinoiserie
cups fill with sugar and sweat.
Dipping our bread like I taught you,
three pinched fingers then a knuckle past your lips,
morning comes and goes without us.

You pluck apricots in holy water from jam jars,
place two on my chest,
and say soon till it sounds like the closest thing
we call a prayer. Above, a bruja disguises herself as a robin
and sings to leave the jam jar on the windowsill. And we do.

Everything here spills—
the sugar, candle wax, the night into morning, your legs over the linens
like melon crescents slick with dew and pearls
while the rot of garden leaves and dogwoods reek
through the window. Wisteria crests the rain gutter
like the curl hanging in your eyes. A bruja disguises herself as a bruja
snips your curl at its stem, tells us to leave it here to dry in the sun
for potpourri. And we do.