and overlying limbs.
Silken skin in dusky stillness.
Bewildered by their beauty,
awestruck in sublimity.
But that’s what happens,
when you let yourself sink into the covers,
never to rise,
until the world shifts its course.
I try to change the paintings on the walls around you,
as not to disturb your fitful slumber,
but so that when you wake,
you will be overtaken,
Nevertheless, the world will continue its course,
with or without our feelings,
so I just let my voice cower under the cool draft,
sinking in from the cracked window.
In the bathroom,
I let my sight,
spill on to the floor.
It makes me lighter.
That way my ears can float,
on the adagio notes that waft in,
from the kitchen,
in our sticky apartment.
My body continues,
its assiduous routine;
wishing its agitation will stir you back,
I am aware,
Esperanza vive en el corazon que late
y sentido en el cerebro,
que da forma y significado a la vida.
Nuestro deber es descifrar los latidos,
en la esperanza.
of our Sunday morning bedspread,
envelop my sick toddler.
She whimpers in her light sleep,
her binky quietly chirping,
as she suckles it.
My pajama top is clutched,
in her pudgy little hand,
to ensure that I must remain at her side.
In the kitchen,
there is a disaster scene of an early morning breakfast,
In the bathroom there are also remnants on the floor:
soiled baby clothing, a damp hoody towel,
and droplets of sticky cherry medicine.
Later I will plan my escape, then my industrial cleaning fury.
For now, I succumb to her tiny,
but powerful grasp.
Letting myself melt into the folds of the comforter,
I snuggle close to the radiant heat,
of my stricken cherub.
Elevating us above the ordinary cobblestones of Post Office Park,
The moon shinning over our pre-pubescent crew of misfits.
One step closer to the sky.
It was on nights such as these that I felt my first creative pangs.
They began as fleeting impressions like witnessing a shooting star,
At first you are not sure of having seen one,
yet there is a sensation of awe that lingers.
Then came the tremors,
electric and charged,
pushing me to put words to the haunting beauty that surrounded me.
I dramatically tried to verbalize what I was experiencing,
the sound of wet snow falling on the churning winter ocean
or the scent of wild roses in a thick salty fog.
By the time the earthquake hit at age 15, I was armed with the art of words.
Poetry became the valley through which I channeled my raw, turbulent emotions.
At the time I did not understand what was happening,
nor the power I had found in my falling;
I would be saved time and time again
by a blue Bic pen and a white wide-ruled notepad.
Life would pull me through twists and turns.
Poetry would make me stay the course.
Hardship would not find me helpless.
I often think of the young girl gazing at the summer stars over Exchange St.,
Sipping a cappuccino at Java Joe’s,
Dreaming of what the future would offer.
Although 6000 miles and a lifetime away,
not much has changed.
I am still dreaming, still longing, still learning
to be, to love, to create…
To wring a poem from my gut,
there’s nothing like infuriation,
with acid reflux burning,
comes a verbal deviation.
My words seethe from every crack,
I say only in a sarcophagus,
would you be able to silence,
this woman’s throbbing esophagus.
in the face of calamity,
give me a Pepcid Ac
of God’s magnanimity.