Poetry, Hugo S. Simões
PERSIAN CAMEL ARTILLERY
I am in the dark of a house
in central Tashkent, as
the moths fly around me.
An old dog sprawls on the
floor of the living room.
On the wall of this corridor,
by the light of the streetlamps that
pour in through barred windows,
I spot a framed illustration.
It reads: Persian camel artillery.
I walk, past the bathroom lock I can never work out,
to the light of the open kitchen.
I look back,
and am surprised to see, on a faraway wall,
the shadow of the bars,
of my open hand between them:
fingers apart at the pace of my command.
Here, in the crux of central Asia,
I have wandered at my ease
into the makings of a home.
And if I’ve lived towards no purpose,
let me hope this much at least:
that I lived with some intent.
LILAC SUCKERS
A plate of ham and tongue; blue
murmurs in your eyes, the taut
rising shapes of eastern clouds.
It is like you, coaxing the lilac
suckers out of their breath,
hounds of hell been and beyond.
I hold your coat, glancing back at
such a fright. What a thing, your
evening dress, and the purple
spider legs of bougainvillea just
by your hair; haunting my nights,
my days a ghostly thing, whispers
of synthetic scents and heady rum
and wine. This time of silence and
painted lips; close to mine — this
time of day.
Hugo S. Simões comes from a small island along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. He currently lives in Lisbon, Portugal. His poetry and prose have previously appeared in Southwest Review, Third Point Press, The Rio Grande Review, Across the Margin and Whistling Shade.
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