“Who are you?”
calls the caterpillar.
For a second I cannot answer.
The words walk me home as I encounter
versions of myself eating peaches on public transport.
The armoured clouds come back to me, Estefania.
the blue wind wrapped around your yellow legs,
the blue wind biting your ankles,
the blue wind loving the white wind in the black desert,
the blue wind that flows up your skirt and moves,
mysteriously around the halls of your palace of blue.
Every night we bathe with fairies in the fountains of the Alhambra,
every night we dine on Federico Garcia-Lorca’s eyes,
we stroll around the wasteland of his dreams.
We see unicorns devoured by dogs.
No we are not unicorns. No, we are not dogs.
the blue wind dripping blue on the bluebells,
the bluebells dancing wildly in the blue wind,
the blue wind blowing over bruises of the blue moon.
Sometimes I find myself eating poems by the roadside,
sometimes I find myself in little pockets of gas.
where I cannot breath as there is no air.
But mostly, Estefania, I find myself in you.
I leave my answer for the caterpillar
though the caterpillar is gone.
by Charlie Baylis
Charlie Baylis lives in Spain. His critical writing has been published in Stride, Neon and Sabotage Reviews. His poetry has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes, the Forward Prize and for Queen´s Ferry Press´s Best Small Fictions. He was (very briefly) a flash fiction editor for Litro. ´Elizabeth´, his debut pamphlet is out now on Agave Press. He spends his spare time completely adrift of reality .