by Jessica Sequeira

Tomorrow the host will likely say, over late lunch
with intimates, that despite his feverish greetings
he hadn’t known the half of them: some had come
accompanying invited guests, but others, he suspected,
simply wandered in off the street, drawn by warm light
and the promise of miniature edibles in circulation,
conversations fluttering into the night and the
possibility a creole guitar would be strummed.

As soon as I arrived I put away three cups, a bit much
(though intentionally). Someone standing on a table
was delivering a speech on liberty to universal disregard;
My opinion of a film I’d never seen interested a stranger
temporarily. Jazz began streaming on vinyl before—Cut that out,
Mari will sing a spiritual, it’s authentic.
Out of nowhere a tortoise appeared beneath the bright lights
with a gold-plated collar, paraded on a leash.

A clear voice floated above the noise: How many identical
parties are occurring across the city this very moment,
do you think? I wandered out to the balcony to join
the smokers here against the railing, looking out
at the star-studded black and the street where small groups
enter and exit—the constantly moving margin, made up
of those who believe the shivering edge,
not the bright nucleus, is where things happen.


About the Author:

Jessica Sequeira lives and writes in Buenos Aires. She was a finalist for the 2015 Berfrois Poetry Prize.

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