Poems by Angélica Freitas

polyphonic ringtones
 

1. between polyphonic ringtones and multi-fabled languages
between sharpened knives and the elevated costa e silva (expressway)
between dumbo way up high and the spit on the sidewalk
adventure takes flight on avenida angelica
and this morning produces and tomorrow reduces
the traffic black cat sticking
adams minty chewing gum on the seat of those benches in back
between polyphonic ringtones and winged sneakers
between flying paulistas and billowing bearers of blunts in jean pockets
between the median on avenida paulista and the view from the são paulo museum of art
between the ones i want and the ones you want from me

 2. from the polyphonic ringtones of the city of são paulo:
between the waltzes and wakes and convulsive introverts
between the exalted whore and sham explosive (closet) cases
between the opening in the mouth and the last train to mooca
between ringtones and the fallen marquise
she died yesterday executed poor elise

[read in the original Portuguese] 

boa constrictor

wrapped around a branch
              between leaves didn’t even stir
                    damned thing
i was seen it was lunchtime
              and it said to me in snake tongue:

stuck

turned the trunk she was already there
                       she calculated the length of my spine
                                        closing in
                             spare me i said
and she in snake tongue
              denied:

you know why you came
            doce de coco
and you know where you’re going to go

         coiled with such dexterity
                       gripped tight my legs
                  squeezed me
            until my chest
      grew larger
than my soul

creak then a crack
           of the bones breaking
              a tear just escaping:
                   it was like love
the lack of air
               the blood rising to the head
where the story begins

[read in the original Portuguese]

one more (tiny) thing
 

don’t calculate what you’ve lost in buying a box of pins (made in china)
and from where exactly they emerge with heads (flat)
and your cursing mao tse when a drop of blood appears (from the finger)
and when you find a pin in the street, leave it there (it’s not dead)
the same kind of pin pointing to the blouses (in your closet)
and brushing your skin it produces a red (so rare)
and someone is dreaming of pins (in china)
in this life only valued by a dozen (clearly)