Suspiria
Quang Vo
Over the bayou’s wooden plank,
you sit washing your autumn hair
in rice water. Moisten fragrances,
hidden in hungry stares, braid
dawning waters dripping from your
fingertips onto your hair. You ascend—
as a spirit from purgatorial flames,
leaving imprints on my wooden days.
My days, once not yet ripen yellow
now brimming with saffron
coursing through a bayou's heart
diluting coarse traces on nurseries
of senses—soaked by prophetic waters.
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