Tengo el resto de mi amabilidad
Envuelta y esperando por ti
Todavía aquí se queda
Anticipando el incendio pequeño de
Nuestra colisión
Cuando podamos
Cuando ya no están almacenados
Me derramará mis sentimientos
Como mariposas eléctricas
Category: Small Birds
Small birds! Fond, short, fleeting and a little sweet.
You are beyond intrigue, luminescent when you fill a room.
I adore the flip of your feathery hair, the chestnut glow, your essence
I am filled with light and softness
Your laugh is the very meaning of joy.
I appreciate your nose. Your jaw, your shape, the way you light up and crinkle under your own smile, shyly, boldly, blushing.
Many times, you’ve burst from recollective
Gates in zooming jubilee streaking white
Across some grassy field, a carpet sprite
Jingling like a thrill in mom’s direction.
I lose myself in ways to permeate
Your portrait enveloped in shine and black
A footprint just before your thread went flat
To seal in wax your blessing, unwise saint.
Still, the weight of your head on my chest was
A porcelain egg, embedded and warm
In my sweater, my own bones dwarfing your form.
My beaming dream was you could speak in tongues,
That you would blink out words with your wet eyes
Or huff lamenting with your ancient love
You, magically contained by knitted lungs
Snored small rhythms to our paused and mulling lives.
This poem is dedicated to my Princesa, my dog, who recently passed away.
Not a baby bird
I’d been walking cross the mesa snow swathed in down and speckled wear, alone
And bathed by moonshine there in bare pastel
when I palmed the onion in my pocket. Basking in the shadowed cleft.
I tucked my head to my breast
like a mother-robin and smoothed the layered ruffs
On my scarved chest and on the onion skin,
waited for it to warm my palm,
beckoning a phantom pulse
Expecting it to beat.
But its globule one-pound started, pulseless,
Only rustled and shed flakes when my hand opened round the bud
To join in on the snowfall
The waveless and white
The waterless lake
To punctiliously fill a single foot print which I made
Despite which I’d still etched each step,
pressing the soft birch in parallel, hot-iron soles, taciturn brands
steaming depressions as neat as first stitches in a seamless quilt.
A thread-straight line abandoning trees for freelancing the aimless,
frameless terrain
With my
wrapped and
Nameless self, willing
The lifted onion to evaporate up-swirl behind my pace.
Ana Celeste Poetry 