| AUNTIE MARIA'S ASHES
by Teresita Garcia I dreamt today about Auntie Maria. She was floating rigid as driftwood down the Icacos River Dam, floating into those soft evenings of half darkness where light gathers on the rim of things as shadows cut shapes into the blue sky. I've had this dream before. Once, I called out to her through the charming two-tone whistle of the coqui frog, where the harmonics connected our voices with an invisible wire that encompassed the wailing creatures of the night. Sometimes, I am certain she is happy, joined in the rhythm of the rain that drips inconsistently under the white spill of the moonlight, beneath the giant ferns, mountain palms and orchids. And oh, the muddy smell of orchids, life vibrating, pushing its way out of the damp ground. Her body has a memory locked into a daze of images where star lights penetrate the clear threads of our conversations as the heaviness of our words edge into the wilderness. Their flight a certainty, a prolonged reflex of our last goodbye. Everything liquid begins to swirl like deep water, into sleep. When silence prevails, I taste plantain, bitter, unripe, mashed and fried with garlic. There’s a sweet, creamy and zesty undercurrent of rum in my mouth. Auntie Maria is still with me in that warm angle of light that holds the anola tree lizard where the unnamed remains of what it is to love, dwell. |
SALT POINT, CALIFORNIA by Myles Boisen |
|
WOLE CALLING
by Anne Babson My ear to the conch, and I hear ocean Whether I have visited shore or not — My ear to the phone, and with emotion I encounter you in your fullness: Hot Kisses on the nape of my neck unkissed, The weight yet unpalpated of your hands Against the creases of my knees uncrossed, The scent of your skin peppery from lands Spiced with firey flora — all this although We have never met yet face-to-flushed-face. It does not matter. The ocean still flows Though we stand inland. Your fingers trace The outline of my eyelids much despite Distance. See me see you unseen. Requite. |
|
THE RISK
by Anne Babson If I tell her, then she will know it for sure. If I don't say a word, she'll still suspect. I'll avoid meeting her altogether, But avoidance is a clue to detect As well. Perhaps I should just confess it. It will be over more quickly that way. But what if I leave it simply tacit, An unspoken understanding today? My words are idle, a stalling motor On a cold morning. I turn the key now, But I can't start dialogue in torpor. This secret will stay secret, I allow. The abundance of the heart the mouth speaks, But the hour is hush-hush, afraid of leaks. |
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