curriculum vitae

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Curriculum Vitae

Blanca Varela

let’s say you won the race
and the prize
was another race
you didn’t savor the wine of victory
but your own salt
you never listened to hurrahs
but dog barks
and your shadow
your own shadow
was your only
and disloyal competitor

Translation

Curriculum vitae

digamos que ganaste la carrera
y que el premio
era otra carrera
que no bebiste el vino de la victoria
sino tu propia sal
que jamás escuchaste vítores
sino ladridos de perros
y que tu sombra
tu propia sombra
fue tu única
y desleal competidora.

 

Photo by Martino Pietropoli on Unsplash

a winter twilight

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A Winter Twilight
Angelina Weld Grimké

A silence slipping around like death,
Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh,
a breath; One group of trees, lean,
naked and cold,
Inking their cress ‘gainst a
sky green-gold;

One path that knows where the
corn flowers were;
Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;
And over it softly leaning down,
One star that I loved ere the
fields went brown

Photo by Giorgi Iremadze on Unsplash

 

the world says not to expect the world

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The World Says Not to Expect the World
Khadijah Queen

But do it anyway —                be made, all
out of love—             taken, bestowed, lived
through, by means of, without

the beauty we don’t want
to waste              & the world says it
wants, but trashes, sees as glut, usable

in a finite manner          We like talk
of human          forevers as holes in us
unfilled, we’re raggedy apartments

Which thin glamour to blame for such
schism, runaways          & orchids
tattooed on wrists or thighs, as dull men scoff—

We still say             keep fighting

& love me again—           don’t the pines die, too

& exactly          with our names

Photo by María Ten on Unsplash

insomnia etiquette

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Insomnia Etiquette
Rita Dove

There’s a movie on, so I watch it.

The usual white people
in love, distress. The usual tears.
Good camera work, though:
sunshine waxing the freckled curves
of a pear, a clenched jaw—
more tragedy, then.

I get up for some scotch and Stilton.
I don’t turn on the lights.
I like moving through the dark
while the world sleeps on,
serene as a stealth bomber
nosing through clouds…

call it a preemptive strike,
“a precautionary measure
so sadly necessary in these perilous times”.
I don’t call it anything
but greediness: the weird glee
of finding my way without incident.

I know tomorrow I will regret
having the Stilton. I will regret
not being able to find
a book to get lost in,
and all those years I could get lost
in anything. Until then

it’s just me and you,
Brother Night—moonless,
plunked down behind enemy lines
with no maps, no matches.
The woods deep.
Cheers.

 

Photo by James Gibson on Unsplash

bitterness forgotten

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Bitterness Forgotten
Inga Kuznetsova

Photo by amirali mirhashemian on Unsplash

heartbeats

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Heartbeats
Melvin Dixon

Work out. Ten laps.
Chin ups. Look good.
Steam room. Dress warm.
Call home. Fresh air.
Eat right. Rest well.
Sweetheart. Safe sex.
Sore throat. Long flu.
Hard nodes. Beware.
Test blood. Count cells.
Reds thin. Whites low.
Dress warm. Eat well.
Short breath. Fatigue.
Night sweats. Dry cough.
Loose stools. Weight loss.
Get mad. Fight back.
Call home. Rest well.
Don’t cry. Take charge.
No sex. Eat right.
Call home. Talk slow.
Chin up. No air.
Arms wide. Nodes hard.
Cough dry. Hold on.
Mouth wide. Drink this.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
No air. Breathe in.
Breathe in. No air.
Black out. White rooms.
Head hot. Feet cold.
No work. Eat right.
CAT scan. Chin up.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
No air. No air.
Thin blood. Sore lungs.
Mouth dry. Mind gone.
Six months? Three weeks?
Can’t eat. No air.
Today? Tonight?
It waits. For me.
Sweet heart. Don’t stop.
Breathe in. Breathe out.

 

Photo by Max van den Oetelaar on Unsplash

diagnosis

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Diagnosis
Andrea Gibson
I suffer
from unrequited self love.
I love myself, but I don’t
love myself
back.

Photo by Jez Timms on Unsplash

you came

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You Came
 

You came
into
my life
to graze

because
you
were
starving.

Having
gorged
until
you
are full

you are
displeased
by my
hunger.

Photo by Mae Mu on Unsplash

dear PTSD

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Dear PTSD
Rudy Francisco

I’ve always wondered
what my dad was like
before he met you.

Photo by Emily Morter on Unsplash

a litany for survival

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A Litany for Survival

 

For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children’s mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours;
 
For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.
 
And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
 
So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive.

 

Photo by Louise Lyshøj on Unsplash