We painted dawn into midnight
Out of cement ceilings
we made skylights
From gravel, we crafted fine and delicate chandeliers
hung them with fishing line
so they appeared to float in midair
We turned copper piping into rings
Venus circling our fingers
the oxidation turned our digits green
our limbs transforming
into ferns and orchids
We breathed and our condensation
Created clouds
Our tears fed the sea
We prayed to all the living things
We sat in silence with the trees
Our feet rooting into the ground
To touch the highest energy
The evergreens and us
We breathed in tandem
And inside our lungs
Sprung a forest of veins
Mimicking their cousins’ limbs
We sprouted two intricate flowers
In our minds
For the left and right hemispheres
And we hung our thoughts there
Believing that the petals would keep them safely tucked away
We recognized ourselves
Didn’t need mirrors to see our likeness
Even the dirt felt like us
The sand, our bones in a trillion pieces
We walked atop these beaches
Sinking in, their legacy holding us
There was silence
and we were not afraid
There was peace
And we were not anxious
There was a world
We did not conquer
Copyright © 2024 by Desdamona. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 8, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
In Nicaragua, my Nicaragua,
What can you buy for a penny there?—
A basketful of apricots,
A water jug of earthenware,
A rosary of coral beads
And a priest’s prayer.
And for two pennies? For two new pennies?—
The strangest music ever heard
All from the brittle little throat
Of a clay bird,
And, for good measure, we will give you
A patriot’s word.
And for a nickel? A bright white nickel?—
It’s lots of land a man can buy,
A golden mine that’s long and deep,
A forest growing high,
And a little house with a red roof
And a river passing by.
But for your dollar, your dirty dollar,
Your greenish leprosy,
It’s only hatred you shall get
From all my folks and me;
So keep your dollar where it belongs
And let us be!
Salomón de la Selva, “A Song for Wall Street”: Tropical Town and Other Poems (New York: John Lane, 1918). This poem is in the public domain.