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Quiet Joys

September 4th, 2008 No comments

There's a quiet joy I think
to my father's jokes that are 
funny-but-not-really. I
don't talk
when he tells them, and I put 
a face of one not
too moved for laughter.
There's a quiet joy I think
most people miss
walking down the broken sidewalk
of my conifer forest. Along the road
there are anise plants
so completely ordinary with
their two white petals
in an axis. I
roll one bulb between my fingers
and take in a sweetness that
cannot be forgotten. 
There's a quiet joy to my stomping
along the path to my house 
impeded by roots and tiny
nuts that bulge into my soul
through the soles of my shoes.
There's a quiet joy to these things,
till you twist an ankle.

 

*I'm more like my father than I'm willing to admit, and I did twist an ankle that hurt quite a bit for a few weeks.

Categories: Nature, Poetry

Laid to Rest

September 2nd, 2008 No comments

My sweet:
All matters have been
Deliberately entombed
and it's a sealed deal.
We must not raise the dead.
Not like any of our best conjuring
could do the trick.
My heart,
if we buried a catatonic comatose
than a legitimate corpse
it'll awaken to a silken bed
and a comfortable pillow.
Quickly suffocated into eternal sleep
Would that it not manifest
through its wooden coffin,
like a ghost
or work through the peat
(and break packed dirt)
like a zombie.
Yes, baby,
let us the skeletal remains
remain
or won't we come face to face
with Yorick. (And worms.)

*After a relationship has ended, resuscitating it can be like opening a can of worms.

Categories: Love, Poetry

Red Ant Queens

September 1st, 2008 2 comments

Mid Julys on alternate years
sometimes bring swarms of queen ants
out of their nests
for mating. It is the rainy season
in Guadalajara.
They are thumb-proportioned, 
devoid of wings
but with powerful mandibles
nail-sized. Thick bristles stick out 
of their backs
right behind the two black pearls
they have for eyes.
These are red ant queens, mind
that live under trees or moss or 
football fields
and are very scary. They
command armies of workers
that live to feed them. They are 
strong at their mouths 
and could surely cut
through flesh and arteries
and bone to the utter detachment 
of a pinky finger.
We eat them with tortillas, 
lightly roasted.

 

*I was seeking to build a particular description with a surprise ending, while commenting on a larger scale about our own species.

Categories: Guadalajara, Mexico, Nature, Poetry