by Guillermo Martin
A Portuguese word with no direct translation –
fitting for feelings you can’t fully express.
Profound yearning for things lost and never found;
endorphins swim as memories flood.
A wistful glance towards prosperous youth before thieves arrive:
Reminiscing of no worries and yes-terdays’ expressions,
or Forever friends further, further still from farewells.
Games finally made obsolete falling victim to the clock.
The scorching encore radiates from the background:
Secret words and sensations only a pillow dreams of now.
Ancient lovers caress your neck with rousing breaths,
no longer filling the gap to reach the cloud’s peak.
A tattered photo of Ma and Pa dressed in sharp new clothes:
Melancholy sinks in about six feet to join them.
Wishing for favorite foods preserved for Sundays,
leaves a bittersweet taste you can’t seem to swallow.
Things once concrete become abstract and intangible.
Lost along the path, distance prevailing –
memories held onto for dear life,
a suffering so sweet.
The flies begin to gleam
scuttling, hovering, fighting for steam
ever searching for the illustrious peach
a calculated risk to reach this star
every night towards a fuzzy dream
surreal, but instinct swarms on
the buzz, the hit or hiss
seeking and gazing
soon to be upon the promised land
God’s nectar falling from a precious stone
the fruit tree is a bullseye
only a master’s stinger can pierce
stealing a glance, a fateful
touch with six legs and two wings
appendages strewn about
hastily deciding on entering
a web disguised as a path, a maddening future
no compound eye could detect
the creature reeks of too late
an incurable rot infests its garden
crawling with anticipation
the larvae learns to fly
unaware of the cycle about to transpire
Dreams of ancestors displaced from home
aliens from a foreign land haunt me
I inherited their alienation
I sit up with a creak
scanning the room with unsteady eyes
the bed and I share a mutual discomfort
The flicker of a lone candle
its warmth projects a lively scene:
dancing shadows over bleak walls
who mock and reject my solitude
The face on the clock is like my own
we move forward in time, but
always seem to stand still
our hands grasping at the future
The closet door is locked
no longer enabling my seclusion
or offering a place to hide masks
Back in bed I search for a companion
to share this desolation
I almost find her,
but she’s overshadowed by
repressed thoughts and stalking mistakes
competing for my affection
Nights spent blindly looking for an exit
from this self-imposed prison of doors
light slowly starts creeping
in through pale blinds.
But it never lasts
Guillermo Martin is a man of simple tastes who enjoys long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, and intimate conversations. While not being a hopeless romantic, he spends his time cooking, running, and writing. He currently attends Santa Barbara City College.