Change
Letting things go-
ashy embers drift
The metal in my hand scorches my fingertips
I sigh at the destruction before me
Still, sometimes, I wish that the
listless smoke could return to its youth. In vain I whisper:
incinerate the leaves sprouting green from the branches, singe the forest to a whisp.
Grow back into a
howling white hot
Torch, a Phoenix forging a newborn path
(Still, often, I am comforted by the hush of the present stillness)
- Janie Mendosa
Who is this Old Lady?
The morning makes us cry forever. Forget the child night cough, the urgency of love, the verb in the prayer of the Our Father. The morning found me thin as my past. I saw myself reflected in the window; my hair smelled old roses almost with no petals. Who is this old lady staring at me? I do not recognize myself in that old fat body. I would kiss her but it would be just out of pity. I took off the pyjamas, dragged my feet outside. My back is so wasted that I can only see the sky by looking at the pools on the sidewalk. Life is such a mystery: by the side of the maternity, there is a cemetery.
- Cristina Bresser