Find and share the perfect poems.
I crawl along the wet floor Of my mother's childhood, A serpent, or a long-buried secret, In my mother's bisque Chiffon gown with small stars Stitched in silver, a crown Of tinsel pinned into the dark Blonde knots and dreads of my hair. I follow a sequin thread of dead Things, stop when the moon clocks out, Polish my long nails in the sun.
Copyright © 2010 by Cynthia Cruz. Used by permission of the author.
In the interview recorded the night before
His final death, he said he was almost adjacent
To being human. In the basement apartment
My mother tells me
On the long distance telephone
My body is slowly filling with light.
I don’t believe I have ever
Told you that I never
Broken crimson
Mercedes sedan.
Cotton-wood, milk-weed.
The taste of cold metal
and the repetition of three AM
sirening ambulance rides.
Yellow cream, three-tiered
birthday cake.
Cherry lip balm.
I am better when I am dead
or when I am
dreaming.
Having finally entered
the carboned pistons
of your machinery.
You, as a boy,
racing through
the warm excess
of night’s soft decline.