The Red Dunes
Sun and shadow converge in the soft, late afternoon light.
Earth becomes flesh—the dune’s round hip-curved turn,
light carving the angle of bone heaped over with a mound
of sand, firm and full as a plush Ruben’s nude.
Rising up from the hard and stony land, she lifts her
fluid body, spreads her skirts’ sumptuous copper satin,
glides gently for miles, skimming the horizon’s thin
edge under a lake blue sky.
And where is she going, this woman smooth as tumbled agate
crazed with stray stones, trembling at the roadside
with strands of spring’s purple flowers? Follow her
far enough and you might find yourself caught in sand fields
deep as water—a swimmer lost in her encircling arms
softer than the sand-covered city of Ubar—nothing
but the fire of her topaz sun in your eyes, each arm stroke
nestling you deeper into her supple red womb.
In the Himalaya Foothills
Late afternoon on the patio. Bees
drift from blossoms’ open faces.
The hush of hidden water trundles through
the valley far below, washes across the senses, softly
as cloud shadows drifting across the tree-covered hills.
Beyond them, the Himalaya white-clothed gods
slip from beneath the mists to gaze across the sky’s
open heart. Eased into the afternoon’s couch,
we watch while children play hide and seek.
Hour after hour, how effortlessly light floods the earth.
ANNA CITRINO is the chapbook author of Saudade (Finishing Line Press, 2013). Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Canary, Flyway, San Diego Poetry Annual, Spillway, Paterson Literary Review, and phren-z, among other journals. A graduate of the Bread Loaf School of English, and a native Californian, Ms. Citrino has lived abroad in five countries since 1991. Currently, she teaches humanities at the American Embassy School in New Delhi, India.