Mari Sánchez Cayuso

Tag: allegory surrealism

  • Redolence

    When I see birds
    I can almost smell them

    An odd thing to confess aloud

    They smell like a wound drizzled by morning rain
    like dust lifting softly from pavement after weather
    like roses still carrying the cold breath of dawn

    Not unpleasant

    Just painfully alive

    Ancient somehow

    As though feathers preserve memories
    the body spends years trying to outlive

    Strange how scent reaches the soul before thought does

    One breath
    and suddenly the past becomes physical again

    The ache gathering beneath the ribs
    the overwhelming feeling
    of having lost something beautiful long ago

    That invisible meeting place between longing and recognition

    The way certain scents return us
    not only to people
    but to former versions of ourselves

    Softer selves
    unguarded ones
    the selves that still believed tenderness
    could exist without disappearance attached to it

    And perhaps that is why birds unsettle me

    Because when they cross the evening sky
    carrying the fragrance of rain and distance and earth
    something inside me rises toward them instinctively

    Not joy exactly
    not sorrow either

    But the unbearable remembrance
    of who I was
    before longing became part of my nature

  • Voltage II

    But listen

    Even lightning

    Must gather itself before it cleaves the sky

    I have gathered

    I have stood inside the anatomy of collapse and named it rehearsal

    Have felt the surge rise beneath my ribs

    And chosen—not to extinguish it—but to contain

    There is power in the unspent

    There is dominion in the held breath that does not betray itself

    You think stillness is absence?

    No—it is a field of charged quiet

    A storm disciplined into elegance

    A body that could unravel the room and instead chooses to remain

    So do not come near me expecting softness alone

    I am composed of forces that negotiate with fire

    That bend impulse into precision

    That hold entire voltages behind an unshaken gaze

    And if I touch you—it will not be by accident

    It will be because I have decided exactly how much of the current you can survive

    To be continued . .