Poetry

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?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

James Diaz

James Diaz lives in upstate New York. He is editor of the literary arts journal Anti-Heroin Chic. His work has most recently appeared in HIV Here & Now, Foliate Oak, Indiana Voice Journal, These Fragile Lilacs and Bad Acid Laboratories Inc.