constellation

Andrés Montoya - 1968-1999

there are the stars
and the sickle stare
of the moon

there are the frogs
dancing in the joy
of the ditch and the crickets
serenading everything

there are the trees
and the huge shadow
of the wind whispering
the old hymns of my childhood

and of course, there are the stars again.
winking at me like a curious woman.

               i am learning to breathe.

More by Andrés Montoya

love at the beginning

tonight for a moment as the owl sleeps
i’m going to dust this city’s dirt from my clothes
the dry hot deaths that bring the strongest to their knees.
i’m going to run headlong through a rainstorm
dodging lightening blasts and hurdling rivers
as wolves howl on a peak of purple darkness.
with my nose flaring, the sulfur of the fields will not deter me,
i’m going to come through to a background of laughing cars
and screaming
                                sirens.
my forehead pushing forward to the street
of your house, i’m going to come with the smile of a boy,
my smile,
my hands offering callouses, offering struggle.
tonight as the owl sleeps, i’ll come with the silence of a cricket,
with the intensity of a flower and for an instant, a second,
before i tell you it’s starting and bring the guns,
feathers will flow from my mouth to tell you, mi amor, my soul,
a kiss before we pray. i gather the stars like berries
and bring them to light your face, let me again smell
the skin of your stomach,
let me wash your feet with my lips,
nibble the meat from behind your knees.

three thousand lost kisses

the night swoons
               to the hip-hop
               of gunshots
               and stars.

a young woman’s teeth
               challenge
               everything

about sorrow’s suitcase
of explanations

and i am learning to hope
               like a bird
               learns
               its first
               affair
               with wind
               and sun

               like an orange
               learns
               to take flight
               into the mouth
               of a boy
               in summer.

the trees are prophesying.
the mountains are waiting
for the long trek to the sea

and the sea
               waits
               like a lover
anticipating the kiss
               of three thousand
               lost kisses.

the night swoons
               and the trees
               begin their blue-black
               dance
in the wind.        

declaration

i have found
the face
of story
lying again.

i’m tired.

i’m a moth
on sunday.

i’m rain
looking
for a cup’s
crippled rim.

this is my decision:
blindfolded
i will look for truth
in the rough skin
of wood
sticking up
at the sky
from the largest hill
at the dump,

in the sound
of a car
on its way
to church,

in the smell
of beans
boiling away
into the night.