Month: April 2016

To disappear, light a match. From the flames
disperse ashes out to the campfire grounds, then play

the guitar until the strings break and bleed into your skin.

Patty Playpal wore my pajamas
tiny Betsy McCall bent her
jointed knees and prayed.
Dad built a wall of shelves for my dolls.

One day Dad bought a used pink station wagon
with his winnings from Las Vegas.
“Honey, you won’t believe what I paid for it!”

I have seen this America from 30,000 feet
I have seen this America at poverties door
I have seen this America before the wars, after the greed and tears
I have seen this America make promise

an inner quest
all that thinking and figgering
choosing and re-thinking

ever notice about holding on
that you’re less secure
less sure-footed

How I got to this place
This point of confounding indifference
I know not.

Lips cracked, dry, sometimes bleeding
Her eyes a scornful accusation
Her once robust self an emaciated shadow of its former character

You don’t want this

This is the opposite of a love story
There will be no redemption here

Rescue nothing but the fierce wings fluttering on the horizon—or our clamoring words above the abyss—in the end: bow to the radiance of la boca—sweat beading on the upper lip. Ultimately, we are only the meager cohorts of shadows—a harsh inheritance—trailing a swarm of stars drooping over celestial dew, fatigued and aching to collapse into dust. In our time, the hostility of el tigre collides with the steely visages of the ancient steles, and you and I parachute into a remote, solitary jungle beyond the semen-rain. Mario Duarte lives in the UNESCO City of Literature, Iowa City, Iowa. He is an alumnus of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and the University of New Hampshire. His poems and stories are published in Carnival, MadisonReview, Slab, SteelToeReview, OddvillePress,Storyscape, and...