I.

We are earth and light, water and blood.



"Stop the car. Please, Jakov."
He brakes hard.



A voice, from the dim bother of the present:
"Is everything alright, Mr. Károly?" But Jakov
speaks to a ghost.



You are no longer in your seat.
The door is lonely on its hinges.



Jakov sits agape with glass-green eyes, nervous,
confused as you stand in the heat.
The day is prickly, breathing with fire.
It is a village on the sun.



You are a cacophony of
butterflies and thunder, bones and dust, and you think,
"Is this it?" After all these years,
you are trembling.



"Wait," Your
voice is hoarse. You stretch out your hand.
The light sees it, little rivers of
blue veins and it clings, you
catch fire from the sun and you will it
to catch the boy, please, catch the boy—



"Wait," Your
voice is hoarse but it is louder now,
slicing through thick air.



And sweet baby Jesus, through all the words in your head,
the boy turns.



II.

We are time, we are rhythm, we are all, we are one.



He stares at you.
You could weep.
You are a crazy old loon, you tell yourself,
catch your breath—but you care not and
he keeps staring at you, bony
fingers clutching a painting, skin
the colour of rich soil.
The gold of the frame glints,
winks. Eternity twiddles its thumbs.



III.

Two local kids pass, hand in hand.
They watch for a few
seconds before running—
you barely see them, spectres and
smudges
out the corner of your
eye.



"My name is Virag Károly. I am from
Szombathely, a place far from here." You are afraid to
move—one motion could send the boy
flying and you cannot let him
fly, it has been leading to this it
has all been leading to this and—



"I have been here before,
a long time ago. Mexico City—has
has always,"



you stutter and perhaps he
pities you.



You are a beggar in these streets of
should-be-beggars, but you
are the beggar now and you are
hungry for the painting to
"Turn, please—could I just glimpse—" you are moving
your hands. Something clicks
and finally he understands and he
turns the
portrait and
in every lifetime you
will fall to your knees before
her.



IV.

"Did you know my abuela when she was alive, Señor?"
You tell him you cannot forget, you are a mess
of tears and spit and blood that he cannot see and
she is staring at you and you touch the canvas and with a roar Time
shoves you, breaking your back and once again she is
holding your hand
wearing a scarlet dress and saying "Maybe we
lived a thousand lives before this one
And in each of them



We found each other."

Oh, how flavorful! I'm always a bit nervous to leave a review on poetry, because I know for a fact (as a poetry writer!) that there are often little flips and acrobatics we do with our words, that people will never catch up on.

I get the feeling here. There's a lot more going on with each deliciously presented image than what I'm getting on the first read-through. This is something that should be studied a bit more before a full review is given, but honestly, I think first impressions are extremely helpful.

You are a cacophony of
butterflies and thunder, bones and dust, and you think,
"Is this it?" After all these years,
you are trembling.

That was by far my favorite stanza. I've always imagined death tasting like dust and moonlight. Looks like one of those things at least presents itself in life.

You have extremely judicious use of spacing, here, and I think it lends itself to the style extremely well.

I'm glad you got awarded something for this! Thank you for sharing, and I apologize for the tardiness of this reply.

-VV