Tuesday poem #533 : Amanda Deutch : Flores, Azores 2007

 

 

 

In the Azores, on Flores, 
we raced snails and 

millipedes on the 
heated floor. There 

was no escape. Everything 
was damp pages curled, 

paper warped, even young 
bodies ached. Barometric 

pressure. The sky was grey 
in Azores, so even the lush 

foliage and mosses 
appeared dull, cast in 

shadows. The coast 
carved out of volcanic 

rock. Grey and
black sharp onyx

like knives. Rocks’ 
edges always wet and 

slippery from the torrential 
rains. One day while walking 

on the rocks, I slipped 
and cut my leg. 

I skirted along the rocks to a 
nearby restaurant, where I drank 

white wine and ate grilled 
lulas with fresh lemon.

Telma drove uphill 
to show us the moss. 

Shoulder high, if you leaned 
on it you could disappear.

 

 

 

 

Born and raised in New York City, Amanda Deutch is a poet and social practice artist. She is the author of several poetry chapbooks, most recently Bodega Night Pigeon Riot (above/ground press, 2020) and Surf Avenue and 29th Street Coney Island (Least Weasel, 2018). A new chapbook is forthcoming soon with above/ground. Her poetry has been published in The New York Times, Oversound, The Rumpus, Cimarron Review, Ping Pong and in many other journals and magazines.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan