larissa martins

three poems

I’m a Busy Woman

Today I’m a professional beach bum,
a secret pop star on vacation, Brasil’s
Hannah Montana and the muse behind
“Garota de Ipanema,” but yesterday,
I was a marathoner who broke all the best
records for men and women alike, and
tomorrow I’m starting my Master’s
in Sumerian Ornithology to research
how the government replaced our sparrows
with spies, and next week, I’m inaugurating
my museum of feminist artists who have
ten times the talent of Dalí and Picasso
and all those other women-beating scumbags
the world made famous, and next month,
I’m learning Korean and jiu-jitsu and
flying trapeze, and this Christmas I’m
releasing my own #1 holiday hit that will
finally dethrone Mariah Carey, and next spring,
I’ll be starring on a reality TV show to find
a husband or a wife, and on my 29th birthday
I’m skydiving and then bungee jumping
right after, and when I’m 60 I’m going
on a meditation retreat in Costa Rica
to drink ayahuasca and maybe meet Jesus
or Zeus or Vishnu or Allah, and when I turn
100, I’ll be sent off to space to discover
galaxies no other human has ever witnessed
with their own eyes and who knows what
I may find, I might just then be adopted
by aliens who give me an elixir of eternal
life so I can keep upgrading our worlds
forever and ever and evermore—

Nights Na Rocinha

One hour at a barzinho
quickly becomes two
and then three—bottles
of beer collect at our feet
laughter liquifies time
to the beat of pandeiros
and tamborins—where
the bar owner notices
we’re the ones playing
pagode on his TV and
he still sings—where
sometimes we leave
only when the sun drops
to our knees—like once
when we left with just
enough money for one
moto-taxí—meaning
our boozed feet would
have to carry us on a long
trek uphill—meaning I dug
in my green purse in search
of a straggled pink bill—
hunted for a garça-branca
buried in nylon lining and
found her crumpled in glory
beside a bobby pin—so
we laughed and we hugged
and we learned the sound
of cinco reais of ecstasy—
motors rumbling and wheels
rolling up Rua Dois
in a drunken daze—passing
shadows of billboards
moments before the workday
rustle begins—where we
navigate a maze of alleyways
and stairs until we reach home
with no set address—where
Rocinha’s heartbeat folds
between us on a bare mattress
on the floor—dizzy bliss
wrapped in a blanket
of body heat—softened
only by a fan’s breeze—

Eve’s Accomplice

BELIEVE me, anyone would
be tempted to crack open
the thick-skinned grenade Eve
plucked from that tree. I was
there in the bushes when it all
happened, when I noticed Eve
curiously cupping a pink bulb
in her hands then throwing it
repeatedly against the earth
until it caved in. I witnessed her
peeling off the thin white skin
revealing the scarlet pockets
of juice gleaming in sunlight
as crystalline rain fell from
her eyes. I was there, I saw her
praying for tastebuds to anoint
her fingertips when a ruby aril
burst and stained them with sin
but believe me, it’s not Eve’s
fault, God never said not to lick
red fingers clean.