Damon Hubbs

We Are Flying Down to Rio 

After the coup, in the year of half-returns 
you talk about the city of pirates
or is it pussy, king of the pirates —I don’t know, Lulu
you’re always playing games 
and I’m smart-alecky in my brown blazer
entertaining hangovers, and yet, and why 
who can say. The weather clusters without cohesion 
and we go to the MFA for a single painting
of rosy rusty tones and street lamps
like flayed angels

then off to a party 
half-remembered, on Linden
where I watch you 
walk through walls, dividing sense 
like a double-agent, lo—
the boatswain is there
and the army of the queen, 
we are flying down to Rio, someone says 
and Rachael’s risotto has me shedding marvelous tears
again.