Cotton candy wrapped silence
sliced into pieces,
hung by the window,
blocking the sun.
A supernova explodes
into a black hole.
(Endings taste like sugar)
Modern Power – Theocracy (21st Century Jeremiad)
I’ll send a message–
perhaps nail it
upon your door.
For once this tale
is known,
search for recourse.
A starless night’s presage
silenced the shepherd Amos.
For in his visions
all who gathered at the temples
bow to unknown sires.
Blessed be they who spark
the fires of discourse.
In the fading twilight sky,
a notion clings
to its dying breath.
For modern indulgences
to a time bygone
plague a once true devotion.
No wandering stranger
to befriend–
a world left cold,
and to the mend.
A rage transforms the shepherd’s tears.
Cursed be they who bear
the power role.
The centuries will cry:
“Woe to you,
you hypocrites!
Preaching
as if some martyr,
as if you hold a crown of thorns.
The hatred you spew poisons your mind
and damns your soul!”
Reckoning of Doves
Will you pity me or love me,
before the committee?
Question their lasciviously pious pitfalls.
Plumaged viper,
We’re both condemned by spitballs
and hung like doves on fire-ovens.
Know their pity-love is only borrowed until you’re left hollowed with intestines
cooked and swallowed.
The dove you were
was destined to scorch.
Heaven’s touch, foolish bird, belonged to me not hawks. Now we burn
in flocks.
Who will taste our flesh then try to fest on our fall? They never sought out the gangrenous gash that will ooze and rot
on their tongue. They never thought we’d turn poison into power.
Slow consumption travels through the veins,
dove pieces dissolved in acid,
fumes resolved to enter blood and prey on hawks.
Know the flames are soft
until more doves fall lull
and with their feathers feed fires
that will one day silence withering sires.
Elementos Básicos
Te amo con el calor de mis sueños,
como un fuego sin miedo,
que quema mis huesos.
Te amo como la lluvia que cae entre la tormenta y el sol.
Como la promesa de un día perdido
y la ofrenda de un mar sin destino.
Te amé como el lodo marca pasos sin dueños.
Como la tierra olvida caminos
cuando se seca el cariño.
Te amé como un pez ama el aire
Como la brisa tiembla
cuando respira imágenes de nubes.
Te amaré como las almas atrapadas en cajas
que viven en la esquina
entre tu boca y la mía.
Breakroom Cemetery
“I’m so edgy. I spend my lunch breaks at the cemetery.” I announced as I sat down.
“What the hell, Liz, that’s so weird.” Lily’s sweet voice was low and soft as if it could mitigate the boisterous tone of mine.
“Weren’t you the one who carried rose quartz all throughout eighth grade because,” I drew quotation marks in the air, “it would bring you your soulmate. That’s odd and cringe.”
Lily blushed, “I was going through a phase. Eighth grade was 5 years ago anyway. It’s not like it matters. I mean, I just like collecting stones, okay? That’s not weird, you are. I’m going to report you to HR for harassment.”
“Woah, wait, you’re the one calling me weird, Lil. I was joking, chill. I tried finding your soulmate, too, but your standards are held in Mount Olympus. I’ve been watching that demi-god show – with the dyslexic kids of gods and mortals becoming heroes. I want a t-shirt.”
“You should read the books, but I know you won’t. Anyway, what were you saying about the cemetery?”
“Oh I thought you said it was weird?”
“It’s not normal to do that during a half-hour break. It’s not even a particularly pretty cemetery either. How’d you get inside?”
“On the side there’s a gate, you can’t see it from the front parking lot. It’s super heavy, probably made with lead, and, well, there was a lock but it was so rusty that it fell the first time I barely touched it. It’s a Civil War era cemetery. The youngest grave I found is from 1868, a baby boy who was born two years prior. “
“That’s really sad, but don’t tell me you’ve heard crying or felt some unnatural presence.”
“I wish, but that cemetery won’t be getting a visit from ghost hunters anytime soon.”
I paused, biting my lower lip before continuing, “I’ve been cleaning up some of the graves, but I’ve been selecting the graves by certain criteria. Like if it’s a kid, I’ll clean it. If their epitaph is interesting, I’ll clean it. Is it wrong of me to pick and choose which graves I clean up like that?”
Lily stared incredulously at me for a few seconds.
I stared back before adverting my gaze.
“It’s not some deep thing. It’s like, I saw some earthworms and ladybugs and those people have been dead so long that now they’re only bones and stones, but the worms and ladybugs are alive. But it’s for me not them, but not really because I hate worms and collect ladybugs in jars until they suffocate. It’s just that I’ve been thinking how the computer screen we stare at all day sometimes looks like a gravestone.”
“Liz, I’m not really sure what you’re saying but my fifteen minute break is almost over,” Lily pushed back her seat and started standing.
“Wait! I picked this up for you on the grave of a fallen Union soldier. The stone looks pink. Here,” I grabbed her hand, “carry it. I know it’s not quartz but maybe this time it’ll work.”
Lily blushed again.
I turned around and stared at the highway from that second floor break room as Lily walked out the door.
Cling Wrap
I didn’t choose to be left behind in that month of May
My bags were packed
My head full of jokes
I heard from Joe during recess
One last check, one last glare
They thought I didn’t know
A ghost through the curtains
is always certain
His hand touched her cheek;
The mark left was my dog’s enemy.
Sprinted back to the car.
Susie was dancing
in circles.
I grabbed and pushed her into the backseat
They came
“Why is she crying?”
My mom said
as she fixed
her makeup;
My father said
a prayer as he gripped
the steering wheel.
Amen.
The lake always broke through quiet times before.
On the coarse damp sand
We’d laugh and
build castles
that lasted past noon.
I’d float in the water and
My hair, straight and blond, became cling wrap.
The car swerved and I looked up.
My mom had been a seating rock
held up by the grab handle.
“Calm down.”
Her mouth a straight line.
“Catherine.”
I almost hadn’t recognized my father’s voice, rough and low.
My mom reached and turned the radio on
And nothing else could come between.
I lowered the window,
The cool morning breeze welcomed me.
I tapped my fingers
on the tip of glass
as we neared the trip’s gateway.
Waterfall bridge was a local landmark
that always needed fixing
It stretched out amongst the pines.
Its two lanes were narrow and built for cattle.
I didn’t trust the bridge
I’d count its length
1, 2, 3
Headlights at a distance
4, 5
A red van
6
It was a time when sight was blind
but I swear his left hand jerked the steering wheel.
White clouds
Drifting
El Naranjal
Olvido
mi niñez,
mi anhelo
como el naranjal olvida
los azahares
que no crecen a naranja.
Amalfi Coast
Love was a concept he donated
only in the summer.
He’d paid for the devil’s aid,
Now the heat, Hadean escape.
Pretty face, locked gaze.
Sentiero dei Limoni.
The sun picked her through rays.
The days, the days!
They lived under a bittersweet haze.
He knew the path was paved in the darkest asphalt.
She claimed asphalt-paths were made for Vespas.
He had a debt due,
an aching feeling tearing dried glue
of a closed wound.
His heart starts beating even as it’s fleeting.
Love was a concept she gave
only that summer.
She ate rotting lemons
and threw out lingering costs.
When he returned,
he tore the truth and it blew
across the sea to Bizerte.
Yellow
In the field where we once grew,
I wondered why the deer departed
as I pulled marigolds from their home.
Before the final petal fell,
I ate that wicked flower.
No lies left behind in its shadow.
The promises of stars
became celestial ash
marking our footprints,
scars.
Our plans became
burned maps of places
we would never see.
I tried to give you my soul,
only the weeds could hear me
but they soon died from pesticides.
Tree-lined Boulevard
Let’s walk on the tree-lined boulevard.
Football season.
I don’t care for sports but you do
and I care for you.
Life gave us short change
on a summer’s day.
Then in the fall,
a key thrown past a post
but I cut the field goal.
I dream of yesterday
dressed like a king
crowned by yew trees.
Your pinkie near mine
a promise owed to time.
The walk is a winding road
leading to the start
with no end goal
or throne of gold.
You fade like a breeze between teeth.
Noble wins belong to you, not me.
I, once a gem,
return to the path like a pebble,
And now,
only the trees remember our story.
FJ Vera 