Oh, Miguel, with your cat-milk eyes.
Tell me again how the road winds
to your reserved place in heaven and
how your abuela gave you a new name.
How the belly of the sugary sky
gave you feathered-serpent legs
and chafed hands that paint
spinytail landscapes and rows of allspice.
Can I rub your chestnut cheekbones,
and trace the pillowy partings of your hair,
and dip my tongue in your holy watering
mouth that forms U’s at the end of my name?
Then tell me again how you used sorcery
in silos of magical corn that smokes
like you do on the poet’s stage.
Will you clayskull Spires in my dreams?
If so, I will drink your chocolatey sweat
and wonder how your body is a guitar string,
how your fists in our Revolutions still burn.
Tell me, Miguel, who else is like God?
About the Creator
Paul Aaron Domenick
“I am mine. Before I am ever anyone else’s.” --Nayyirah Waheed
“Publication is the auction of the mind of man.” --Emily Dickinson
“Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.” --Franz Kafka
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More stories from Paul Aaron Domenick and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Irony of Flying While We Bomb the "World's Greatest Terror Regime"
Ah, the irony of flying at this moment in time as the United States is simultaneously bombing Iran - the nation officials have insisted for decades is "The World's Greatest Terror Regime" - while the TSA is on a go-slow, courtesy of a funding squeeze that's left its officers unpaid, quitting in droves, and turning checkpoints into something like slow-moving bread lines.
By Scott Christenson🌴8 days ago in Humor
Comments (2)
Wow, I’m getting Cummings, Stevens, and Williams in this and haven’t finished identifying all of the canonical echoes in this don’t-have-a-word-for-it masterpiece. 🥂
Grasping imagery like a fist this one.