lunes, 25 de enero de 2010

.a new name for this road


When we were children, you didn’t care for words, you only filled pages with vertical lines. Beyond the page, the bite marks at the tip of your pencil, bare knees, a scrawny cat sleeping at your feet. We lived in the city and I thought you drew lampposts, telephone lines, the long, rusty rods scattered in construction sites. Your voice insisting, no, no, these are trees.

Conchitina Cruz

domingo, 17 de enero de 2010

.look at this tangle of thorns

my veins
that keep shifting beneath the surface of my skin,
writing love letters to you in cursive.

they say with my heavy bones my body will never
get off the ground, but that doesn't mean i close
my eyes when the sky is so beautiful it hurts.

my hands might someday turn into wings.

bits of "trilobite" by estallidos