Maria Malacrida lives in buenos aires, argentina. She feels her heart
is elsewhere. Her work has appeared in local anthologies, Aesthetica
magazine, and other literary journals.
a room half-set in light, half-drowned
by glass whispers of Bach
or Debussy with a throat of gold
to play the sea in a triptych of
movement, like paint, oils on a
light steals erosion from sand, and
moonlight steps from walks under the
promenade stars--a moon you need to
stare deeply at for its eyes to
work their charms on you.
and things written and read in child-
like books under the rain
and rain-stained pages and crossed legs
like spiders--the rain grew wings
and the insects flew, liquid under flesh:
all of them but the broken ones
who loved the rain but were invisible in it.
staring at the new moon inside
the room, or reflected and afar but
echoing of classical drops on keys
or hands upon strings. a casual
contact of eyes and clothes or
breath like shared smoke
or voice in a street-lit café.
friday night, hotel room
for philip larkin
again the light seeps from the cheap lamps, the watch
unseen claims it's not yet seven but i think and the world
thinks it feels earlier. life is always unsettling in a different
place with no time to adjust or say no, this is not right and
i want out.
the empty chairs by the desk stare silently, they say also
this is not our place but they swallow the fear, they think
perhaps a pair of arms will come rescue them and move them far
from this distance that haunts them. and maybe a resting moment
will bring them close again.
the light recalls a larger side of loneliness, spilling from books
and sounds and the stereo that sounds deep but not quite right
like a different voice in a different place.
hours pass like trains in lone towns, different steps and speed
for different places but the feeling is one and the same and time
walks swiftly but is still afraid--
the bright room with wide-eyed windows, the hum of unknown visitors
padding careful halls, searching for home where only temporary vacancies exist.
the velocity of sorrow, or: transport to central
a rocking motion. this is how it begins,
and Joan alone under the rooftops like
a bird. the sparrows tread, mysterious;
daring to look down.
they dare to drown their brown, grey and
into a sea that is not even there, a
muffled scream underneath wool
and leather and
look at winter, falling into step with
months and months of waiting in
silence for it to reach me,
greet me with its fumbling hands
and hoarse voice.
I have been waiting, I know this is
grief speeds by and I watch the car-crash
of my mind, set in stone, trying to move
and trying to keep myself from
the snow covers every bit of
brain, every side of love, and the wind carries
the sing-song rhythm of birds
falling one after another
saying I have waited too long but
have not moved at all.
I stand on the platform and
look at my hands trembling with emptiness,
yearning for a pen or a scrap of paper so that I can
let the words drown in the cool snow,
seal it under the sky and the wind, all eyes,
and make it reach you.
you change your name, see yourself, forget
you're there. you fade, but I always reshape you. words fly.
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