Saturday, July 22, 2017


Left in the closet,
hanging between my grandmother's tale and my rush to greet other faces
is my Thobe, a dress hand-stitched, with loss and love.

Not sorry

that I broke my hand reaching out for you
that I lost my tears for exchangeable gas, I couldn't help it
that I cannot feel the slightest remorse that one day you could have been
that grief does not take me over any longer, I cannot help it.

Shades of blue

What was Azure, you ask me
I point to the sky; it is summer and all clear
tell you this is how it reflects over water
the weather

you ask me further
how it makes me feel, this shadowing of sky and ocean
like a fairy-tale, I answer
a good start of one, at least

this is how we communicate
these days, on the sky, on colors
on a basic shade of the rift that was
where fish once swam between us

carried over-broken food for small finned daughters
how does it feel then, when the sky turns Celeste
another shade of the same blue?
like a gap is closing, a start of a fair-tale, a good one this time.

Beethoven, Havana Style

there's something like a late blessing in music
a tie, as if from a blue silk thread, weaving the heard 

the left behind. How do you play Beethoven, Havana style
Timba first, a flash of a dancer's rhythm in the steps 

you stop counting, falling as it may, 
the effect of the notes dropping in an empty studio 

but you are one blessed with a full heart and an explainable desire 
for listening to the noise of the city 

as it exhales at night, Havana, hub of the imagination 
this is it, then, how adventure gets written 

with a trumpet, with a soft beating of a drum 
no one can hear but an experienced night cat: a dancer 

tiptoeing on a melody, maybe this is all we are doing 
perhaps this is exactly what Beethoven would have sounded like 

having not been born with a pierced eardrum 
with stripped skin and less aptitude to genius

maybe a little drumming called the gods once 
will awake with the trumpets, a jazz at the edge of the night 

like swords clashing, like bodies fusing together 
in response to the late blessing of music.  

Friday, July 21, 2017

Short statements

I do not know, such short statement
for a woman
who spent her life buried in books.


if what you give, automatically comes back to you
why then, do the clouds only give us rain?

we have been playing all our cards wrong
but keep receiving good, like packages right on our heads

if you hear someone call you in their distress, and you answer without screaming
why then is it that you receive a harsh conversation with a soft voice

not all of us know how to arrange our words best
for those who cannot take in the noise and our frenzy

if your song is not music to someone else's ears, maybe you have an ill-fitting voice
it is not you who should be held at fault with the misalignment of your notes

yet still, you can control the temper by which your force the notes
out of you, like stars lining the sky

if you go the distance but fail to arrive back on time
because the road was longer than your feet anticipated

allow yourself a break, the body gets worn out
like little rocks eroding with time

if you do it right, things come back to you
full circle

On the news, the streets of your city

On the news
the most familiar streets you've walked
the grocer's, the post-office, the place you fell when the school-girls laughed
the bookshop, its glass doors, it will all look different
with the same intensity, it becomes foreign

on the news, the most familiar streets in your city
become alien, when the tanks start moving in.