Seeking the Mystical by wilesofstarlight, literature
Literature
Seeking the Mystical
i.
Language, culture: words
form a semi-permeable, light-
bearing membrane that
alternately connects
and delineates the spaces
between and inside
persons.
ii.
She walked Sevilla to learn
Spanish and flamenco and what
heaven looks like
from a different corner of earth.
She listened to the tales
of the smoothly-diverted
Guadalquivir by night; day
took her young feet
over ancient paving stones
to meditation. In la Catedtral,
she knelt and ached
to be Catholic. In la Alameda,
she laid her ear
against the columns, hoping
to hear the echo of a Roman
voice. In los autobuses,
she closed her eyes and wished
for skin like aceit
Talking to Memories by wilesofstarlight, literature
Literature
Talking to Memories
Mama, if I run away, don't
take it wrong: I'll just be
gone until the sway
of tides has fallen dormant.
Eternity can't truly be forever
not if you're coming too, the way
you said. I'm hungry, Mama, hungry
and I'm running: there's a train
to catch before we wake up old.
I know you dreamedyou still
doI do, too. Let's go find Papa,
find my baby sister, brother,
dreaming other birds and melodies.
We all belong to one another
one daybreak she put on her rainboots.... by wilesofstarlight, literature
Literature
one daybreak she put on her rainboots....
one daybreak she put on her rain boots, left her umbrella in the stand, and started walking. her hat was just wide enough that the rain ran down inside the back of her coat. when she reached her favorite oak, she paused and contemplated climbing, then left the bark to dry.
grey folded around the stillness in her; raindrops softly cut mist. the last sodden leaves fluttered, the only solid bits of dark through the fog. when the sun started burning the mist around her, she stopped walking.
Between Afternoon and Evening by wilesofstarlight, literature
Literature
Between Afternoon and Evening
Mama's face looks
like the moon,
eggshell thin,
a sliver broken from
her edge as
she soars low
across the blue, begins
to tumble-slide
into the bruise
of musk-purple
that grows from the side
of the earth opposite the
sinking sun
Soon she will shatter
on the treetops, which are
deceptively feathery
to see, but sharp
like arrowheads
to touch when
the fingertips of
forgetfulness collect
ashes and return them
to dust.
A Slight Antithesis by wilesofstarlight, literature
Literature
A Slight Antithesis
She drives manual because it makes her feel powerful. It seems to surprise people, perhaps because she’s the quiet, sweet sort. So instead of telling them that she imagines she’s hitting a race course, she just says, “Oh, it’s more fun, and it makes me pay attention to the road.” Her passengers only ever see the perfectly mannered driving, where she rarely speeds and always takes care to shift so precisely that she’s as smooth as an automatic transmission.
When she’s alone, she guns it off the light and chirps second, the entire car jolting at the abrupt clutch-shift-clutch-shift. Fourth gear is her
It is not time that heals all wounds. by wilesofstarlight, literature
Literature
It is not time that heals all wounds.
I. Thursday, November 8, 2001, Sometime Before Morning
What time did you go?
And where? And where
was I? Back then, I still slept
at night, so: in bed.
I slept while you died.
II. Last Summer
Mama sent me searching for a car title
in the dim garage, pulling down dented boxes
of July-warmed files. Inside legal tan,
I found a green paper, several,
all identical, all so long they folded
heavily four or five times into a bursting envelope,
all printed in a highly legible fixed-width font.
Across the top: Death Certificate. I read it,
concrete cold bleaching my toes
grey. They’d gone numb before I
finished reading. I can’t
r
Entre Respiraciones | Between Breaths by wilesofstarlight, literature
Literature
Entre Respiraciones | Between Breaths
Distraída, perdida,
te busco, aunque nunca podrá verte
Confío, confío, susurro, repito,
como si las palabras tuvieran magia
Pero, ¿qué relación tienen magia y creencia?
Limitada, desesperada,
te digo, «No te dejaré ir, si no me bendices.»
Tranquila, tranquila, susurras, contestas,
palabras del Dios que con palabras creó mundos
Pero, ¿qué relación tienen Dios y humana?
Me rompes, como un espejo;
me formas, como una paloma;
Te huyo—me caigo—mis pequeñas palabras no servirán
como escudo ni espada
Pero, no puedo temer de t