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El Colibrí de Gisela

El colibrí de Gisela vino a la última flor de pasión en lo alto. En un lugar privado, escondido de la calle, este pequeño pedazo de desierto se ha transformado en un Edén. A veces verdeante, ahora es la temporada mortal. Las vides de uva, de árboles de limones amarillos, de nectarinas, las camas de jardín elevadas rebosantes de enredaderas secas de calabaza, sus frutas ya han cosechado, las tomate cherry casi vacían, sus hojas café y crujientes, todo su energía ya gastó. Queda nada para dar a la luz.

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Below the Surface

-For John

I reached into the dark side of the fringing reef

below the boundary separating air from water.

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Palpable

Three fingers on my right wrist, you listen

to the rhythm of my blood river, its constant

flow no one else hears. If you placed your

fingertips to my forehead, would you feel

my shame? Would your palm over my heart

read my longing? Could your hand on my

left hip, fingers pressing deeply into knotted

loins, knead open their gate?

You reach behind the smooth surface

of not caring, the falseness of bravado,

unmask me with your silence.

Light rain pitters on the canopy over the picnic tables,

the fire pit lacks a Jenga-tower of wood, forms the nucleus

of empty log benches. The smoke ban prevents bonfires

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Before I Slice the Cake

I blink my eyes shut, breathe in a rushed wish, raise my eyelids and blow out the candle. I am

embarrassed, wonder if I’ve chosen a good-enough wish, what others will think, fake

having made a wish when my mind draws a blank.

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