Angie Vasquez

Issue #
October 3, 2017

Fragments in Time

Moonlight radiates down
children do not mourn
parents buy new shoes
             rabbits copulate in grass,
                              leap over each other and dash.

Cracking open a woman a child births itself.

Bodies arch over steering wheel
fog condenses glass.
We find each other… a voice in my head says he is the one.

After the fall people see
                 they are not                    who they thought.
Fortify hope in a wooden barrel
send her over water to live
in her grandparents’ stable.
Wait out the peril: dust storms,
trains tracks pounding down her back,
nails piercing flesh, hand rotting still attached.

Shoulder length hair, khaki crescendo,
camel jacket wind sails, ghost bodies,
hang around invisible ankles, graze cement.
               He follows me, shouts from corners                beware, beware.

Grandson places hand in sandpaper fold,
parachutes to shoulders, peers down fields
where white herons alight, flocks migrate
nest at feet of skyscrapers, exhaust fumes,        birch oasis.

Moon beams flood evening, babies born with wings
flee fire steeples, plant pine forest temples
along the shores of ancient rivers. Start over.

                 What was our first language?

Poets resist death of a people
fingertips bless pen, paper.
Full moon halo crowns campus        new humans born        two hearts beats beating.


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