Still Life Poem by Roberto Tejada

We'd often
been included in
the weather, whose
changes (as in the

still, portending
darknesses of after

noon) were hardly
evident, if even
manifest at all.
The August rain

over Mixcoac
& the deadening
of all aspect
at a distance:

yet our sudden
wet bodies, firm
swelling divested
finally of shirts

& trousers, left
beside turbid
footprints on
the tiled floor;

this tongue, these
lips the lightning
over the unchartered
landscape of your

thigh: successive
terra nova to
resist the still
life of the body