Theresa Monteiro

Dear Fernando, November

Define the sublime? In the books
we’re told to read here,
poets say: guava skies,
mountains of paradox
(both ice and green), oceans,
and the hushed concentric circles
of a coiled copperhead.
These must shape in us an awe that’s part
fear—the sharp blue shadows
of cliffs bleaching us to smallness,
to silence. But I ask,
where’s the touch? This is nature
without digestion.

Before the poets spoke
a cold glacier and some rumpled violets
into words, women gave birth
as women often have:
in ugliness—with fear and
sweat, metallic scent of blood,
and cows nearby,
chewing. A now-dead language
first spoke, hello
my beautiful boy, a now-dead woman
the first to count fingers and toes.
All of this, more beautiful,
more frightening than skies
or snakes of any color. 

Please, Fernando, show me again.
Show me up close. Paint me
a still life: bruised pears in a bowl,
a knife, and a towel
the color of herbs,
crumpled from work. 

Back to Issue XIV…