by Costantino Toth
After “The Decameron”
The cuss and valanga’s part of the duet.
The mountain’s a dreaming orange, and you,
you need a hard drink.
This is routine, after all. Routine.
A cloud making the evening strobe.
You shouldering through
trees for earshot, ringing like an empty glass.
The mountain’s meat. Just meat
until you enter it, Gabriel–like.
The second part’s a gasp, a chunk—
the ruby of our mai più. —smearing my arm.
Costantino Toth is a researcher, warehouse worker, and writer. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Rumpus, Fruit Journal, The Madrigal, Two Thirds North, and Epiphany Magazine. She is currently pursuing her M.A. in Cultural Astronomy and Astrology at the University of Wales, Trinity Saint David, while residing in Florida with Romoletto, her little cat. Her writing and research trace the tanglings of art, ancient history, and divination.