By
James Diaz
Raven, I think They Called You
you start hitch hiking
west
water drenched socks
and a totem for a smile
it draws the spirits in
at night they dance underneath
your eyelids
hold that last boat for me
I have an idea for adventure
stuck between my rib cage
and corset tight
just how in love can we get
without our skins
alluding to something else
in the dark
our hands catching rain water
and sipping from each others
wrinkled palms
we call this communion
our children will one day
think of us as magis
weary from the road
but soft of heart
and okay drivers at 2 a.m.
which is, I think,
what really counts after all of this,
remembering how to hold the wheel just right.
Met You at a Diner, You Said You Were Seeing Angels in the Air
Criss crossed
the ember
marriott light
as boring as a town
you’ve never heard of
how do you say ‘get me out of here’
in every language that there is
how do you do it
such a typical dancer
pirouetting on the ledge
iridescent skin whirled scar over scar
body blows in, here I am giving
and giving and
heroin needle is not salvific
but it sure feels safe
where do we go after the storm ends
where can I end, you, up on the killer metal
steel bridge built by islanders from
the poverty hutch
of inner coil,
her story makes indents along the soft light
of highway
when we swallow in-
feel that?
thick gulp of gold
shiver, how many gods are you
working with? How many devils?
Is this the right way to say “It cannot last?”
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