Her shaky hands
handcuffed in ransom notes
holds on to bridges.
I look at pretty girls
and torture myself with thoughts of your lips on theirs. I find my stomach wrapping tightly around the eyes of your future muses, seeing you love the red of another's mouth. I see a future of trembling hands, clutching another wrinkled love letter, not knowing when to let go even when you push me into moving cars and tell me to get home safe. Pennsylvania gave us When the Devil
goes international and God asks you for a napkin, you open your palms like the world is a mass - waiting for parts of his body to be placed on your skin. The brushing of a fingertip, the slow smile of an accident quickly fall underneath your tongue as you remember the last time you fell on your knees, the last time the Devil and God crossed paths, as you held parts of the Beloved in your mouth like a benediction. Your communion stays in your blood stream, filtering through your body during the reenactment of late night beneath the covers of memory. You're ashamed that months later, you still taste the earth that shattered in the outfall of your ocean ridden body that tries to forget that time, waiting for the wind to pass along a 'peace be with you' - where kryptonite does not weaken you to the knees. Where you can count one, two, three... and know exactly what the Devil and God may want of your valves as you close your eyes at night to pray, wiping your mouth clean of declarations. Dear God, today I wrote a poem. I saved it on a napkin for you after the Devil tore my dreams in two, taking off on the next plane to Calcutta. ...Now can I be saved? Hello Write Queeners,
I have a case of writer's block due to a lot of personal issues, but I still want to stay consistent with updating. So sporadically, I will share with you pieces I have written in workshops in the past few months. I would love feedback so comment away! I haven't posted a poem in ages, especially since I have been workshopping a lot of my pieces, but since I wrote this nearly a half an hour after my blog post, I'm kind of feeling myself - blog and poem all in one day in the span of an hour. Plus it was one of those Here write a poem moments via text with my dear writing biffle (If I keep calling him that, he will disown me). Plus it's an excuse to come up with a new section - The Write Poems.
Vacant I wonder who else I may be lost to. The stage is lit, the crowd full, but my struggle is bee-lined to you - an apocalypse in the middle of book writing and a girl's night out, vacant eyes dreaming our moments against vibrating speakers or with fingers in mid-air, keyboard waiting stiffly beneath my fingers. Voices rattle around my ear drums, hushed against the silent movie of our memories - repeat repeated over and over until one of my friends or the gentle buzzing of the screen wordlessly touch the back of my neck, the stage lights dimming down as I pull in another tale beneath the folds of my chest, a gentle smile that cannot climb to my eyes, mouths the words "I'm here." Then the glorious editing suggestions. I like this version too, though it takes out a good line. Edit: Vacant I wonder who else I may be lost to. apocalypse in the middle of book writing and a girl's night out, vacant eyes dreaming our moments against vibrating speakers or with fingers in mid-air, keyboard waiting stiffly beneath my fingers. Voices rattle around my ear drums, hushed against our memories - repeat repeated over and over until one of my friends or the gentle buzzing of the screen wordlessly touch the back of my neck, lights dimming down as I pull in another tale beneath the folds of my chest, a gentle smile that cannot climb to my eyes, mouths the words "I'm here." Opinions? Comments are always welcome. |
Christina D. RodriguezA Latinx poet and entrepreneur who blogs about poetry, music, writing, and life. Archives
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