After Monica de la Torre
of blood of wilting or willpower
whippoorwills
wanting like pulling a sword from deep
in a bloomed lily in any other life
would this
have been possible I mean you leaping
like the stag about to turn
into a hundred sparrows me holding on
to you in case the fear alone keeps me
from becoming sparrows
it didn’t come with instructionsthe sword I mean
the police haven’t killed anyone in a while
is something you’d say only if you have peace
of mind which is to say
I don’tI’m terrified of the god my mother asks
to protect me what if I owe him
+ when they unearth us will the fear of debt be legible
on our bones
I’m thankful for those moments I wake up
before youif the police kill me I hope
the last thing I accomplished is making
your coffee because I like how my hands feel
that early in the morningincapable of harm
miming tender acts of weather
instead like a lightning-struck senator
the closest I’ve come
to participating in faith
was believing that lightning strike
would help my neighbors sunrise
sunflower sunset this is a dayif it looks like
all the ones before carrying us
god knows where at least the dogwoods
will white and pink me perfect
like arrows some men only really see
what they’re about to killleap high my love
and know there’s not enough guilt
in ecclesiastes to demand the hungry
attempt grace in their hunger
& what would a king blood-hemmed
and sharp-sworded know
about starvingwanting the undaffodilled
field the sad mechanics of legislation
can makeeven out here with all our shirts
on the clothesline and our mothers
up to their elbows in the washtub
I’ve come with a petition
no one wants to sign like more
swords in lilies thunderstorms
in every quiet dream you’ll have to wake
up just to wring your hair outfull
of the sweet rain smellluminous
as the lake I tend to deep in shadow
where swans dip their throats and come up
dreamingall the leaves giving in
to the wind at onceall the police dropping
their handcuffs over the bridge
and for it raising the water ever so lightly
we become light ourselvesI define
salvation as never having to explain debt
to a toddlerdrag us there and I’ll call
it homedrag us away from there and
you’ve learned something about
this country the blue kings burning
an acre they could ownI keep
their ash in my heart like an inheritance
the urn of methe downside of not being
a daisy patch is all the language I’m expected
to remember like glimmer as in
the gun glimmers and inevitably as in
I hope you’ll forgive me if I say I made a fool
of myself today inevitably
I’ll say the same thing tomorrow
are you the fire I’ve read abouthaymaker
of the heavens+ leaves so gold god gives
so god givesso gold god leaves when
it hits the water how a miracle must
be solved sonicallylike a mother filling in her
own cracksmoss-kissed flowerpot
of a town I’m from where the moon shines
and the blackberries
shine backafter the creek the mud
on our boots was always a kind of red
I’ve never seen anywhere elseministry
made of riverrock and rehearse
-d attempts at dancing until I can say here I am
feeling like a bird trapped in a chimney
some dark theater you could put
your ear against blue and heart
-sized the ones that spend their winters
inside usthis is itall the light
we’ll get at this hour until you bite
into the plum and the lantern of its inside
bleedsturn the radio on the news
is talking about a cloud floating over us
a heavy golden guillotine
far away from here my friend
was protesting the same thing we are now
when he died and the lilies in my kitchen
openedit was days
before anyone told mehave you ever
crossed into the trees from the fieldhow
the world changes all at once
how you can be inside something like that
the worldits interior where
horses run until they become the gray breath
of themselvesand we run until
we can’t take anymore breath like how
museums can’t take something as abstract
as a monthor the shadow of a ballerina
on stage must consider when
trying to accomplish a moment of symmetry
for beauty’s sakesometimes
the fence is down and the cattle
trample the gardensometimes it’s a mercy
to turn off the porch light and sit
with gnats speckling the dark
goldmercythe interior of the world when
the crickets let the moment the rain stops
speak for itself+ then begin their shower
of song calling to each other the way
the stars wish they couldwherever
you areI’m hereunder this indigo evening
blanketwhile the police radios go on
unattended in empty kitchens
—
C.T. Salazar is a Latinx poet and librarian from Mississippi. His debut collection Headless John the Baptist Hitchhiking (Acre Books 2022) was named a finalist for the 2023 Theodore Roethke Memorial Award. His poems have most recently appeared in Gulf Coast, West Branch, Cincinnati Review, Denver Quarterly Review, 32 Poems, Pleiades, and elsewhere.