there is a bird in the hinge
you know it
in the moment you almost choose yourself and don’t
I kept mine quiet, called it strength
it wasn’t—just fear, well-behaved
it learned my breath, waited, pressed
until I felt it
so here—take him
and know—color is effortless the moment you stop holding it back
i saw myself
standing in the grocery line of my own life
hands full of things
i did not choose
no one tells you
how quietly it happens
how you keep saying yes
until your hands forget
what no —feels like
i watched myself swallow it—a bird
not the kind they print on curtains
but the ragged one
ink-splattered
off balance
with a wing
that can’t decide
if it is breaking
or beginning
i say bird
you say anxiety
the doctor says reflux
my mother says pray
my body says:
listen
behind the sternum
that almost-ache
that isn’t pain
that drop in the gut, that sudden remembering
you are alive
and not
where you thought
you would be
i have become
a species of almost-flight
i negotiate with gravity
in quiet rooms
and call it duty
some call it love
some call it
be reasonable
i have learned
the choreography of staying
how to smile
while something in me
paces
i saw a woman
that woman was me
setting a table for ghosts
one plate for my father
one for each son
in their uniform of distance
their chairs pulled out
but empty
and one
for the self
that slips out the back door
when no one is looking
she pours water
for all of them
her hands don’t shake
she does not drink
the bird in her chest
has feathers made of memory
a beak made of unfinished sentences
its claws
hook into the soft places
where decisions live
and the world keeps saying
be calm
be grateful
while the sky
indecent in its openness
says nothing
i ask it for instructions
it gives me none
only this:
witness
the bird does not die
when ignored
it grows patient
it grows precise
it learns your habits
it learns
how long you can stand yourself
and waits
for the moment
you mistake silence
for peace
and then
it moves
not loud
not dramatic
just enough
to ruin the lie
i am not telling you to leave
i am telling you to notice
the exact second
your breath changes
the pause
before you explain it away
the shift
you pretend not to feel
that . .
that is the hinge
that is where your life
opens
or stays closed
you are not broken
you are over-kept
over-held
over-explained
you are wings
taught to apologize for air
so stand there
in your kitchen
in your car
in the long corridor
of your thoughts
stand there
and feel it
the press
the pulse
the almost
the part of you
that still wants more
even now
call it bird
if your want
call it hunger
call it the refusal
to live
half a life
you think I stay
because I return to the same chair
because my hands find you and you accept them without question
you believe that is the whole of me
but you don’t know men
you don’t know
how a man can enter a room and nothing visible changes
and yet something does
a slight turning
like a field responding to wind no one else feels
I have watched it happen without meaning to notice
there is something beautiful in them
I have to say that
the way they move with a kind of quiet certainty
as if the ground has already agreed to hold them
you would like that about him
you already do
you know the man who bends down to you
who lets you lean into his hand
who asks nothing more than the moment he is in
you know only the man who pets you
but you don’t know
how those same hands can linger after they are gone
for years he was simply someone I knew
a presence that did not ask to be considered
beyond what it was
and then
one day
nothing happened
and still
something shifted
I cannot show you where
there is no place to point
no beginning you could follow
only a feeling
like the first sign of weather before the sky changes
you don’t know men
how they can remain as they are
and still become something else
inside you
now
when he reaches
I do not step away
it is not that I don’t see it
it is not that I don’t understand
it is that something in me has already answered
and afterward
I carry it
that is the part
you would not understand
how I return here
sit beside you
touch you as I always have
and still feel
what has passed through me
not where it happened
but where it stayed
you understand the world as something that arrives and remains
you understand what can be held
but you don’t know
how something can move through you
and leave no place behind for itself
and still be there
you don’t know men
how they can walk away
with nothing in their hands
and still leave something in yours
and yet
there is no anger in me
only a quiet awareness
that I am
not as I was
that something in me
has opened
and does not close as easily
you look at me
as though I am whole
as though I belong entirely to what returns
and I let you believe it
because you do not know my language
you do not know men
and still
I stay
this, comes from something I’ve felt for a long time but didn’t know how to show
the first time it happened I was twelve
standing in front of a mirror, looking at myself too long—something shifted
I could see my face, but I couldn’t feel that it was me, and that frightened me
since then, I’ve learned to recognize the feeling
it comes quietly
I keep talking, moving doing what I’m doing but I’m not fully inside it
this is what that feels like to me
like something begins at one point
here at the shoulder and then spreads outward
not as damage
not as pain
but as a kind of release
like I am still here but also moving beyond the shape that holds me
the lines are that movement
the color is everything that doesn’t stay contained
the body is what remains when something in me has already stepped away
I call it rumor in skin because it doesn’t arrive as something clear or visible
it begins as a feeling barely there
difficult to name
something moving under the surface before it can be seen
it spreads quietly
without asking
and by the time I recognize it
it is already happening
I start with a line
graphite—light
almost unsure of itself
because if I press too hard it becomes a commitment
and I’ve spent years
living inside commitments
that didn’t fully belong to me
I build it slowly
short strokes
adjustments
erasures
small negotiations with the page
I try to find the shape
something recognizable
something that makes sense
this is the part
I was taught to trust
the part that can be explained
justified
approved
I hear his voice here
clear
decisive
you can’t make a living with words
you can’t make a life out of art
so I learned
to keep it contained
to make it small enough
to exist without threatening anything
but it never stays
somewhere in the middle
my hand loosens
not because I decide to
because I can’t hold it anymore
and that’s when I reach
for water
I let it fall
not controlled
not measured
I let it touch the graphite
and pull it outward
and it spreads
past the edges
past the version
that was acceptable
past the place
where I could still say
this is just a drawing
and I watch it
because I know
this part is not about skill
this is release
this is the place
I was told
not to trust
words do the same thing
they start contained
careful
edited
safe
and then
they don’t
they spill
they move
they say things
I didn’t plan to admit
and I come here
again
and again
and again
not because I’m searching
because I cannot swallow it
I tried
for years
to keep it inside
to make a life
that didn’t need this
but something in me
refused
quietly
consistently
until it began to show up in my body
in that pressure
in that drop
in those moments
where everything looks fine
and still
something is missing
this
this is where it goes
this page
this space
this place where I don’t have to explain
or prove
or justify
this is where I am allowed
to exist
without translating myself
the bird appears here
or almost does
mid-flight
mid-fall
mid-becoming
I don’t try to fix it anymore
I let it stay unclear
because that’s the only way it feels honest
I used to think
if it couldn’t be something
I could live from
it wasn’t worth this
this time
this attention
this need
but now
I see it differently
this isn’t about making a living
this is about not disappearing
this is about giving shape to something in me that will not stay silent
and every time
I let it out
in lines
in water
in words
something in me
settles
not completely
never completely
but enough
to breathe
and maybe that’s what this is
not a career
not a plan
a place
where I don’t have to hold it all
where I can let it move
where I can let it be seen
where I can stop pretending
it isn’t there
and that
that is why
I keep coming back
God is in the wrist
no, before the wrist
in that small electric yes
that happens before I move
I sit with paper like a woman with too many thoughts
He says nothing
Which is how I know it’s Him
Then—a line
It goes crooked on purpose
Leans into green
Like it’s remembering a forest
I’ve never seen but somehow miss
I try to fix it
He laughs in sunlight
Yellow breaks open
right through the middle of my doubt
Splits it clean, spills everywhere
He guides like that
Not neat
Not polite
Not asking if I’m ready just pushing light
through whatever part of me is still resisting being seen
My hand follows
like it’s been waiting its whole life to stop pretending it knows where it’s going —with one drop of color
I didn’t plan that reach
I didn’t plan anything
That’s the miracle
God is not in the finished piece
God is in the ruin of control
In the moment I let the brush wander and it doesn’t get lost
He was never waiting
at the end
He was in every mark
I almost didn’t make
you don’t say it
but it rides shotgun anyway
window down, elbow out, that quiet between us doing all the talking like a highway that forgot where it was going
you ever notice that?
how a thing can live
without ever being born—just pacing the inside of your chest like a stray that found the door
but won’t come in —that’s us
you trim the truth
like a man shaving in bad light
leave just enough shadow to look like something real
and I sit there—feeling the weight of it
I become a sound you almost say and then don’t—and it echoes louder than if you had
that’s where I live with you
in the almost
in the inch before contact
in the breath you take
right before you decide not to cross it
and it’s not that you don’t feel it
I’ve seen it
in the way your voice slows down
like it’s trying not to wake something up
in the way you stay too long for a man who’s just passing through
you linger like a question you already know the answer to
but won’t ask
and me
I let it happen
I let the silence build a house around us
no doors
no windows
just walls made of everything we won’t admit
funny thing is
it feels warm in there
safe, almost
until it doesn’t
until you leave
and the air changes
and I’m standing in the middle of something
that never had a name
trying to explain to myself how something so present can still be missing
how a man can hold you
without ever really touching you
how omission
quiet, careful, deliberate omission
can feel more intimate
than truth
and here’s the part that stays
not you
you go, you always go
back to the life that has edges, definitions, doors that close
but this—this unfinished thing this almost this sentence that refuses its period
it lingers
in the coffee cup you didn’t finish
in the chair that still leans toward me
in the air that remembers the shape of your voice
and I
I finally see it for what it is
not love
not absence
but a corridor
long, dim, echoing
where we met halfway
and decided
without saying it
to never reach the end
I watched the sun hide
and the birds went after it
not all at once, not in some perfect formation
you could name or study
just one lifting then another then more until the sky itself looked like it had decided not to stay still
like something moved through them and they answered
no thinking
no pausing
no weighing what it meant
just wing
and direction
and me —I stayed
because that’s what we do
we stand there
and understand it
we know the sun is leaving
we know it comes back
we know this is the oldest pattern
there is
light goes
light returns
we’ve made peace with it or at least we pretend to
we tell ourselves
this is how things continue
and still—they go
small bodies
holding the last heat of it
as if they can feel
the exact moment
it slips out of reach
and they refuse
to let it go quietly
they follow past where it makes sense past where there is anything left to follow
and I watch them
thinking how strange it is
they don’t know
what we know
they don’t know about tomorrow
or return
or the comfort
of things coming back
to them
light is not a promise
it’s an occurrence
it was there
it touched them
it warmed them
and now it isn’t
and that is enough
to move
so they move
and we don’t
we stay
we explain
we name it
so it hurts less
we say
it’s fine
it’s supposed to happen
we say
it will come back
we say
wait
and we do
we learn how to stand still
inside loss
and call it understanding
and then
when everything is gone
when the sky empties itself of even the idea of light
there’s always one
a songbird somewhere
you can’t see
still singing
not louder than the dark
not enough to change anything
just steady
like it missed the ending
or chose not to believe in it
and that’s when it turns
because we say we’re different
we say we understand
but we do it too
just not with wings
we call things back
in quieter ways
in memory
in longing
in the way we return
to what is already gone
and sit there with it
as if it might shift
we replay voices
we hold onto warmth
long after it has left the room
we don’t rise into the sky
but we follow
in thought
in feeling
in the quiet insistence
that something that mattered should not end so cleanly
and I stand there
between them
their instinct
and my knowing
knowing the sun will return without being called
knowing there is no need
and still
feeling it
that pull
deep and unreasonable
to call it back
as if, just once
it might listen
Habit of Following
you come from a woman from a body that carried you without question, from hands that knew you before you spoke, from a kind of care you never had to ask for
you were held before you understood what holding was, fed before you knew hunger, loved before you knew how to return it
you were soothed when you didn’t understand your own discomfort
you were seen before you knew how to be seen, you were answered before you knew how to ask
and then you grow into a world that teaches you distance teaches you how to move forward, how to leave, how to harden, how to forget what it felt like to be kept
and you come back to us as men standing in front of women as if we are something new, something to figure out, something to reach
but we are not new
we are the same place you once lived inside
so why do you do this
why do you stand so close and still not see us
why do you reach
without knowing what you’re reaching for
why do you touch without understanding what you’re holding
why do you move through us as if we are surface
not all of you
but most of you
and it repeats
the same distance
the same absence
the same quiet disconnect
as if something in you
chose forgetting
over remembering
because you don’t know us
not the way we feel you before you speak
not the way we notice what you don’t say
not the way we hold what passes through you without you ever stopping to see it
we feel your hesitation your distraction, your presence when it’s real
and your absence when it isn’t
we feel when you arrive
and when you don’t
and still
we are expected to remain
as if closeness is something that happens
just because you are near
but it is not
it is as if you forgot completely what it was like to be known without asking, to be cared for without earning it, to be held without having to arrive
and now you move through us as if we are surface—but we are not
we are still that same quiet place, still able to hold, still able to know
still capable of seeing you in ways you don’t yet —see yourself
but no longer willing
to be forgotten
while you stand inside us
you come from us
and still
you don’t remember
how to see us
how to feel us
how to meet us
in the very way
we once held you
charcoal—comes from something that burned all the way through its excuses
no color to charm you
no gloss to lie for you
just carbon—the aftertaste of fire
sitting in your hand
like it knows exactly what you’re avoiding
I take it anyway
it dirties me first
before
I make a single mark
Good
I don’t trust anything
that lets me stay clean
It drags across the surface like it’s pulling something out not placing something down
a line—too honest
another—already arguing with me
there’s no fixing it
only facing it
press too hard—it snaps
hold back—it exposes the hesitation like a cracked voice
mid-sentence
it reads the body better than I do
every tremor
every second of doubt
every moment I almost chose to be careful instead of real
it keeps all of it
even when I erase
and I do
it leaves a smear like a fingerprint at a crime scene
you were here
you meant that
or you didn’t
but you touched it
charcoal doesn’t care
about pretty
about finished
about approval
it cares about contact
about that split second
when the hand stops negotiating and just goes
reckless
accurate
unprotected
it’s not drawing
it’s exposure
a slow stripping
of whatever polish
I thought I needed
until what’s left
isn’t impressive
isn’t composed
just true enough
to make me look away
and then look back
because that’s the trap
once you see it
you can’t unsee
the version of yourself
that showed up in the mark
not the curated one
the other one
the one that doesn’t ask
to be liked
only to be left
on the page
exactly as it is
dark
unfinished
and impossible
to clean off completely
what do I do with this
please tell me
what does a woman do
when a man can sit in front of her feel everything
and then walk out of it like it never asked anything of him
what do I do with it
when the body won’t settle
when the hands won’t rest
when something in me feels slightly outside of itself
like I’m watching
my own mind
try to make sense of you
of the way you stayed
and didn’t stay
of the way something opened and you closed it
without even touching it
what have you done
no—what has this done
because it sits in me like something unfinished
like something that refuses to find a place
and I keep going back to the same few seconds
the same shift the same moment you became someone else without moving
and I’m here
holding both versions the one who leaned in
And the one
who looked at me after
like nothing had crossed
and it makes me feel
ill
not sick
not broken
just… off
like something in me
knows this mattered
and something in you
wouldn’t stay
and I don’t know
how to put that down
I don’t know
how to return
because —I have left before
I have walked away
from things that broke me
I know how to go
I know how to close a door
but this
this feels like something
I stepped into
that won’t let me out and there’s this thought
I can’t quiet
what if I made it all up
what if it only ever lived
on my side
and still
even with that
I can’t walk away
because I didn’t imagine
the feeling
I felt it—fully
and maybe that’s it
maybe I went all the way in and you didn’t stay there
and now I’m left with something that feels real
but has nowhere to land and tonight —I tried to draw it and my hands trembled
like they knew before I did— what I was touching
and I had to stop
because something in it made me nauseous
like seeing it outside of me
made it undeniable
and now—there’s nowhere to put it back
so I come here to digitally cure myself
and still —it stays awake in me and I keep thinking how can you sleep
how can you sleep
knowing this
or not knowing it at all
how can you close your eyes when something like this
is still moving in me
Nowhere to Land
(2:00 a.m.)
I wasn’t trying to write.
I picked up charcoal
because I needed somewhere to put it.
Whatever this is. Just lines. Nothing finished. Nothing that stays still long enough to make sense.
I kept trying to shape it
into something I could recognize.
Couldn’t.
Every time I thought I had it—It moved.
So I stopped trying to make it look like anything.
Just let my hand follow it. That’s when it felt closer.
Not right—just… closer.
Same thing here.
I’m not writing to explain it. I don’t even think I can.
I’m writing because it won’t sit still inside me.
Because it keeps happening and then disappearing like it was never there.
And I’m left with it
Whatever’s left of it
trying to hold onto something that doesn’t hold back.
So this isn’t a story.
It’s not even a thought all the way through.
It’s just me trying to catch something in the moment it almost becomes real.
Before it moves again.
I keep seeing you
in the middle of things
Never where anything starts, never where anything ends
You just show up, and I let you
Like it’s something I agreed to a long time ago without realizing it
We talk—we always talk—about everything that doesn’t matter
Because the one thing that does would change everything
And we’re not willing to do that
So we don’t
We just stay here
Living inside movement,
letting it keep going
because stopping it
would force it to become something real
And I think that’s
what’s wearing me down
Not you
Not even this
Just the way
it never gets to land the way I feel it and then have to pretend
I don’t
The way you look at me
like something is there
and then leave like nothing is
I don’t think you’re lying
I think
You’ve learned
how to live inside it
without letting it touch
the parts of your life
that would break
I haven’t
And maybe that’s the difference between us
You go back to something solid, something defined,
something that makes sense to the world
And I stay here—in something that only exists when you’re standing in front of me
And I hate that sometimes
I hate how real it feels
when you’re here, and how quickly it disappears when you’re not
I hate that I’ve learned
how to adjust to that
How to hold it without asking for more
Without asking you to choose it
And I’m tired
Not loudly—Not in a way anyone would see
Just in that quiet place
where something keeps going long after it should have stopped
And still—I stay
Not because I don’t know better
Not because I’m waiting
But because something in me still believes
this isn’t nothing
That it matters in some way that doesn’t have a place to exist
So I stay—in something that moves, but never arrives
And maybe one day
I’ll get tired enough
to step out of it
Or maybe I won’t
Maybe I’ll just keep
living here—in this quiet, unfinished space
Where something real
keeps happening
without ever becoming anything
I can call mine
Unveil me
And call this moment truth
Or what you will
I have been so many things
A voice that softened itself
A silence that learned to endure
A hand that held
more than it was meant to carry
I have been a bird
Singing in red
A wound that would not close
I gathered myself inward
Folded light into smaller shapes
Asked what hurt
to become less visible
But it remained
Not louder just closer
So I stopped asking it
To disappear
I let it stand as it is
Unhidden
Unresolved
And still reaching
Learning
The careful art of keeping
what removed me
from solitude
entered with
wings half-lit
it gathered in my mouth
symbols forming
against the soft interior
of my speech
my afflictions
between hairline and skull
became fluent
abundant
uncontained
loving me
like a man
who knows his darkness
well enough
to let it breathe
outside of him
visible
unhidden
still reaching
toward light
Love is
Not the loud red of arrival
Not the blue that once named the animal
But something more patient
A hue that does not ask to be witnessed
It gathers in the soft underside of things
In the pulse behind my wrist
In the dim gold of late afternoon
Resting on skin that has known both fire and its absence
I am no longer painted
I am permeated
A slow diffusion
Like pigment released into water
Not dissolving
But becoming indistinguishable from it
There are colors now that do not belong to sight
The warmth that lingers after touch
The quiet violet of being understood
The pale, infinite white of a moment that asks for nothing
And still
Somewhere beneath it all
A deeper tone remains
Unnameable, steady as breath beneath sleep
It does not bloom
It does not fade
It moves, slow and certain
Through every hidden place in me
Until I am no longer carrying color
I am the place it comes alive
Color does not sit on me
It enters
The way pigment enters canvas
Pressed
Worked in
Slowly absorbed
Until it can no longer be removed
I feel it first
As a warmth
A red laid beneath everything
A ground that breathes through the surface, rising in soft intervals with my pulse
It is not placed
It spreads thin at first, a wash of heat, then deepening
Thickening, until it holds inside me like something alive
Gold moves differently—
It lingers
A glaze across the ribs, caught in the curve of breath
Like light resting on bare skin just long enough to be felt
And blue
Blue opens me
A slow saturation
Wet into wet, bleeding through the edges of my body until even the quiet begins to expand
There is no clean boundary
No edge that does not soften under contact
Everything blends
Color into body, body into language
Language into something that cannot be separated once it begins
My hands know this
The way they move, the way they press, the way they follow what has already started beneath the surface
Every mark carries sensation
A pressure, a drag, a yielding
As if creation itself were a kind of touch that does not stop at the skin
And I let it happen
This layering, this slow insistence, this quiet undoing of distance
Until I am no longer working with color
But inside it
Held in it
Moving with it
A body that has become its own surface
Warm
Open
Continuously receiving what enters and chooses to stay
There are forces
That do not announce themselves
They gather
Like constellations
Assembling behind the visible sky
Like a stone
Learning slowly to become a cathedral
Without ever being told it is sacred
This is where we arrive
Not at the edge of desire but beyond it
Where even longing feels too small to hold what has taken root
Something vast has entered the body
Not to burn it
Not to claim it
But to widen it
I feel it in the architecture of breath
In the way silence now carries weight
As if every quiet moment were holding up a ceiling of stars
You are no longer something I reach for
You are the shift in gravity
That reorders everything
The unseen axis around which my inner world turns without resistance
And I
I am no longer surface
I have become depth itself
A chamber where light arrives altered
Where time forgets its urgency
And lingers
As if it, too
Discovered reverence
There is no pursuit here
No distance to close
Only this immense, wordless recognition
As if something ancient
Has finally found the shape
It was always meant to inhabit
Blue animal
You were never the storm
You were the sky learning how to hold it
And I
Named your endless thirst a weakness
As if oceans could apologize
For their depth
As if magnitude
Were something
To be contained
The end
YOU ARE
The undertow
I mistook for stillness
The quiet muscle beneath the surface
Pulling whole coastlines without sound
You do not ask
You rearrange
Salt enters me the way memory does
Without permission
YOU ARE
A tide that studies my fractures
Filling them slowly
Until – I forget
Where I end
And you begin
My body
A map
You do not read
Only erase
YOU ARE
Who takes the names
I gave myself
And returns them
Wet
Unrecognizable
YOU ARE
Not hunger
But the patience of it
The long blue waiting
That knows
That I am learning
How to stand
At the edge of you
Without dissolving
I am learning
How to keep one bone
Unclaimed by the sea
YOU ARE
A surge
Of breath
That turns to liquid
Just before contact
Teaching my every nerve to anticipate you
YOU ARE
The pull behind restraint
The place where my hands
Forget their obedience
Again
And again
To be continued . .
Night winds
Startles my roof
Such a ripeness
In season
Generations of birds
Tucked between branches
Feels like
I am – in
Nineteen eighty five
Everyone was home
We’re not alike
I am – paused
You – straight’shooter
Fracturing the curvature of my spine
If you’re going to love me
Love me – well
Victoring these days
That feel like nights
Resurrected
By one giant sky
Doors between us
You tell me
Be careful with my head
These ambitious thoughts
Must hide them
Like contraband
In this reverent space
I greet you
Making myself
An immediate cautery
Instead of shaking your hand
Familiarity
And wants
In this existence
Just, lives here
Digitally tucked
In a forever
In this valiancy
And under
An extremest sun
I squint
Seeking
God’s own words
Instead of my own
How wondrous of me
Desiring to be
No less than
A cover of a poem
I think of color
Conte technique
Over this pillow
I shade pebbles
Greater than your hands
Scattering through debris of seeds
In a place with so few trees
Hearing your echo intertwined with mine
What is ‘this’ passion
If you can’t meet me halfway
Sometimes
You feel like a void
That I follow
Without following you
A portraiture
The tonality
Of a single text
When I cannot believe
You bring
A pair of knees
To my prayers
One clanking bell
Sounds of certainty
Missing you –
Is like a transverse ache
Dull, penetrating my right side
Fiercely, loving you
Twelve years was apparently enough
For others to never mention your name
Find me in my dreams
So I don’t forget the angles of your face
familial • ashes
surrounding its coast
superb • is to forget
because •
in this • geology
anonymity is defeated
by flamboyant royals
their vast sweeping branches
its flowering habit
embracing an entire island
that has lost all hope
– Cuba 2026
i pass by
the oldest
mountain
denying
every stain
of rain
i should have resolved
the tactics of my faith
I once knew
How light was spent
Its trickling effects
As faith pointed
With a golden rod
My own despair
Sat in a womb of fear
Aware it was not science
My conscious inadvertently
Reversed millions of words
Narrowing it down to one
-God
Heavy lines
Mounted over me
These purple nights
Drowning super stars
Forgetting what it is to write
Phosphorus dynamite
Encircles and intertwines
Muting one decade at a time
Stone COLD
Hold ON
You’re still STRONG
NERVE pain loneliness
I haven’t LEARNED anything
EXCEPT for the LINES across your FACE
MORE human, than YESTERDAY
I am adapting
Cowardly, but adapting
This is distinction
Between surviving
And existence
My mercy
A need to substitute
My mouth, for a dream
Different homes
Pincushions for doorknobs
Damnit I love you
One must be blind
Stripping God of its own light
Things none of us could be
The profound luster in lines
It’s happening to me
A wound, too echo’d to reveal
That love is not found in days
Fight for insight
God’s copyright
In this interior of light
My signature becomes
A wrath that requires no reason
Forgot
How still
Your mind is
This is not
A compliment
It’s rhetoric,
It chokes
The good parts of me
Covers us in blue
In the instant
Of this instant
Memory invents
Another present
A circular courtyard
With superstitious
Flashes of light
Intended to cover
Every crack in our horizon
The eternities of a second
My whole life to solve
Pitiless searches for a body
To grow old with
Nameless sensations
Such a cruel thing
To miss the dead
With this immeasurable clarity
Like gravid drops of hope
Spinning over itself
Tirelessly, till we learn
How to love, again . .
The furthest of reaches
Sex seal serpentines
These syllogisms
Transform me
Inside is outside
It is everywhere
And nowhere
Invented
Devoured
– Man
We live in identical rooms
We blankly wake, we greet
From one balcony to another
Successively for a hundred years
Between now and tomorrow
We will spend the rest of our days
Growing gardens out of angry stars
Immune to mine
Interiors of gray matter
Granular minerals
Sleepy-colors
Obsolete to some
– Love
Love clamps itself
Leaving small gaps
With just enough spaces
Allowing you to taste
Your very own tongue
Mari Sánchez Cayuso 
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