The summer air has given way
to something colder and empty.
Some nights under the streetlamp
I see ghosts. They run from me.
Entering the sala, I'm greeted by a flaking leather couch. I rest my head on it's arm. Been told to replace the eyesore. To leave it for the landfill. The thought picked at me, but one night, when resting upon its form I heard its frame rattle. I remembered that the car rattles. The washer machine rattles. This apartment rattles. But, my pockets do not rattle. So I lied there staring out the window.
I may not be as coherent
As the rest may be
But I may know my limits
When I had a few in me.
The few is actually many
But that's secret between
Who I am and who I want to be seen.
That for the feedback love
Spreading its form across the glass, the rain offers itself to the windshield. How devoted must it be to be pressed by wind and left on the altar by its higher power. I've often wondered what rain thinks when the car slows when the trees no longer blend with blue hills. When the car comes to a complete stop. When the rain must grapple with gravity.
I've ate tissue that's reserved for vultures.
The price: a convulsing stomach, gagging,
attempting to regurgitate what is forbidden.
But I've sewn my mouth closed.
I'm meant to die. To die is human.
I remind myself of this on days I want
to snip the string to revive myself.
And if you choose to stay,
Mark my words:
"I AM LOVE; and my love will not stray."
My breath is like the wind; my lips are the sky.
Be careful where the words of lighting strikes,
Love will not die.
Mother speaks to me in her native tongue.
I attempt a response; the syllables
on the way to her, trip over themselves.
They reach out for something to hold on to.
There is only air. They hit the tiles
with such weight, that I'm sure my family
in Guatemala grasped their Mayan hearts,
looked to the north with anguish in their eyes.