NOVEMBER POETS

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poet: Valentina Cano

 

 

Crossing a Bright Room

 

She walks with feet of coral,

all air holes and sea water,

two floating organisms

that travel across the room

without her consent.

Her smile trembles,

a clothes-line tugged,

as she nears the group

who closes itself off.

A lock clicking shut.

Her steps never falter,

her hands limp at her side,

but her dress sways,

revealing skin flushed and dry.

The fabric is a ripple of seaweed

that refuses to be tamed.

 

 

A Kind of Forgiveness

 

I ground the anger into a powder

that fit in a thimbleful.

It rested on the porcelain,

dubious, squirming with energy.

I forced it to hold itself

like water, always at the moment of spilling.

It held for a day,

maybe two,

as I gathered loose socks,

as I carved out meal after meal

from our kitchen table.

Without warning,

one tired grain gave up the fight

and fell to a cascading death.

Its fall rung in me,

an echo in reverse,

that forced my head open

in an aluminum can’s scream.