Narrative poem: Mother’s love

I was born in an crystallized below the temperature cocoon

The one who birthed me made it clear

That I was going to be her supper that night

I had 12 hours and 60 minutes to live

My winged claws were tiny and helpless

I was starving for skin contact and tender meat between my teeth

I knew one thing: I wanted to live

I begged this birth mother

For her heart of stone to turn flesh

I cried as she gulped down before my eyes

A brother here, a sister there

Whenever she came close

I would leave my heart on my sleeve

But she would sniff me and lick me

Anticipating the meal she was about to have

There I was, gasping for breath in the midst of left over bones and flesh and blood of those who came before me

Knowing that death was sweeter than any of this

Until I saw

I was born blind but there I was seeing

something flying

That bird like thing was flying in the sky

Never seen the sky before

But that something was flapping wings in an open space

And then the darkness returned

The bones, the flesh and the blood were still there

I still could smell her

But I had seen freedom

In my blindness, and in this cemetery

Something out there was flapping wings in an open space

Someone in here was about to have me as supper

Starving for love and food;

condemned to death, it was time I chose my way out

With claws and teeth I was going to make it hard for her to have any supper this evening.

I killed her.

All I had left to do was to drag myself out of the cocoon

With whatever breath I had left

drag I did

I earned every inch

I bled for every step

Alll I had to go on was my vision

And that sweet, sweet smell of open space

Where something was flapping wings

That’s when I heard them

Her little ones had been hidden all this time

They were chirping out their fear

I have never been one of them

I should have been their meal

But now I was their mother killer

Apart from their fear, I could smell the open space

I kept dragging myself,

Bits of me left behind and picked up by the little ones

I finally found the opening and put my head out

My mother was the something flapping wings in the open space

I sent to her sounds of my starved up heart and belly

I lifted up to her my hopes for the future

My dreams of open space and open land

The little ones had moved from fear to hunger

I saw my mother, beautiful as a queen coming for me

I was loved

And the little ones were having me for supper

But friend, know this, my mother loved me and I loved her.

 

 

Stuff of life

 

I want you and I to talk about the stuff of life. The tiny breaks she made when she threw those words at me. The year, the month, the day and the minute before those invasive bacteria took mon papa.

I want for that night. For that night to have been a dream. I want the power to have gone out like usual. I want that one to not have desired a bath that night. I want for mon petit frère to have been tired and not want to play. I want for me to have been mesmerized by the tv screen like always. For me to have reacted and not just stare. But that’s what I did. I stood there and stared. Our eyes forever locked, forever speaking, forever asking why.

What’s in a life? atom, molecules, flesh. Yes, lots of flesh, but all I have left and all I want to have is the smell of their souls. You can smell it whenever I blink or close my eyes. This corner of my heart doesn’t need any cleansing. The ecosystem that has grown in there must be protected at all costs with every ounce of blood.

In my shell, in this sacred cocoon, the Spirit hovers above the waters of my life. Waiting to breathe upon them a new world. For every limb I lose, my shell grows thicker and the smell grows stronger. For every face you see, another one lies underneath. I have unwrapped and unrolled myself with every move, but with every vision, my loved ones lost their sight, but you don’t need to worry, if you blink or close your eyes, they will find my smell on you.

Narrative poem: How I became a celebrity/ rat lab/ human phenomenon

I have been scratching my back a lot lately

Any kitchen tool has been useful to that end

Spoon, fork, knife, spatula,

if it has teeth or some curve, it’s mine

I would lie on my stomach like when I was a baby

And bake my back under the sun.

I was less and less myself as the days went on

I saw myself on the mirror only to ask

Who was the man staring at me from the mirror

I didn’t like him at all

Shooting him down with verbal bullets

Projecting out of my fiery soul.

My back had grown in volume

I was given the back muscles of a hunchback

But I’d rather die before you see me

hanging by my limbs above Notre Dame

more than muscles, two corns were visible too

and all this time, I thank God for the suga mama

who paid the bills and looked the other way

monsters get mother’s love too.

On the 36th week, my metamorphosis was finalized

I had the wings of a feathered dinosaur

Dragging by my feet as I walked around my apartment

I was hairy enough to compete with the boogie man for the most hairy monster

And yet I have never felt so much as myself at that time.

This is the story of how I became a celebrity/ rat lab/ human phenomenon

I still had the best  manners at table or when invited

I would indulge in pipe smoking once in awhile

When I didn’t skydrop those who rubbed me the wrong way

So next time you see me walking or flying by

Wave and smile.

Iron feet

Lately I seem to have been taking for granted that I have feet, I mean here I sit across from you and I know for a fact that when I stand up, they will be there to support me.They are not pretty, mind you, they have never known the tender and loving care of masseuses or a lover’s hands, but goshdarnit I love them! maybe not enough or appropiately, but I love them. These feets have carried my 200 pounds and some for quite some years now even when it seemed impossible to carry on.
Taikwando experts and dance virtuoso throw legs in the air and jab with them any threat that come their way. Classical dancers have the best display of legs and feet. They raise them like flags and stand on them like circus clowns standing on poles. It’s a feast for the eyes as their arms rise gracefully like swans opening their wings before take off.
But when I sit, my back slightly hunched over the paper I’m scribbling over or the food I’m devouring, these iron feet tap gently the ground, patiently waiting when this mass of atoms and molecules spiritually animated will decide to rise and shine.
These feet that breathe, these feet that dance haven’t deceived me yet. They are faithful transmitters. They sniff out the Earth’s heartbeat and connect me to Her core for me to realize the slight but desperate place I occupy in the universe. I am nothing but dust, Earthy dust, celestial dust, I am your you-can’t-make-none-like-me dust.