Still Life
by Roberto Tejada
We’d often
been included in
the weather, whose
changes (as in the
still, portending
darknesses or 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
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