propel you
out of your body.
Paloma
You’re already
a ghost,
a stranger
in the making.
What was it
we wanted?
What were we
looking for?
I ache
for something
to lead me
to militance,
to strength,
to solace;
maybe a manifesto
whose words
will tingle
my bones
& turn me
into something
greater
than myself.
I’m eager
to create
a new world,
to unravel
the knots
that were tied
long ago.
José Armando
If you stay,
I’ll remind
you every day
that I love
you. I’ll be gentle.
I don’t know how
yet, but I’ll make you feel
it: that my closeness
is hard & real,
like a smooth stone
you hold
in your hands.
Paloma
I want to stride
with purpose
& direction
towards something
that fills my body
with bones,
something
dense & heavy
like molten gold.
I want my body
to hum inside itself.
& for that
I need to chart
articles
of a faith I can abide in,
composed
of soft sounds,
like a river uncurling
in a course it sets
for itself.
Your words are pretty,
but they don’t ring
from within
me. They clang
off-key,
like a bell
that’s been dropped
on a hard surface
too many times.
I am ready,
to remember how to laugh
at the littlest things.
Because
when I can hope,
excitement rises
from the back of my neck,
an exquisite
pulse that activates
the nerve endings
in every millimeter
of my flesh.
I am human—mutable.
Nothing
in the world
is otherwise.
Shadow
When you kiss
him, your finger finds
its way inside the curve
of his ear. You’ve gotten
to know
the feel of his skin,
his scent an outpour.
Your hands roam
the regions
of his skin, but
you’ve also climbed
under his dermis, invaded
his capillaries, you’ve ridden
the waves of his veins,
& settled
the left & right
ventricles of his heart.
It won’t be a story
with a good ending.
Something
in his chest
will tear apart
—something
grown over,
tangled,
uncared for.
There’s no ointment
for heartache.
No pill for lovelorn.
Every time
you leave him,
silence swallows
the apartment you shared
& he’s suspended
in the dark
warmth of its throat.
Paloma
He doesn’t know me,
doesn’t know
what I’m capable of.
I am a stranger
to myself.
The face
that stares back
from the morning mirror
is a blank canvas
of possibility.
For too many years,
I’ve allowed others
to hold a paintbrush
and splatter their
images across
its surface. It is time
for me
to dip my own
brush into a palette.
More depth
and shallow,
more dapple of light.
More realism
than impression.
José Armando
Oh, how little it takes
to love her!
The