Untitled #6

Her voice is a plum fruit
filled with anxiety. The rest of the time
she sings songs without melodies.

She loves me in a punch-drunk
kind of way. And the hangover is blinding.
My cat perches on the edge of the sofa,
and puffs up when she enters.

She is not under contract,
threatens to leave once a day,
The cage door is left open,
she dances on the doorstep.

I keep hiding her in a box,
but she refuses to stay locked away.
Instead, we spend most of our time
looking for each other.

She is a messenger from the heavens
who has forgotten her speech
Her uneasiness makes holes
past the wall, against the stones.


All artwork, photos, and text © Copyright 2008-2009 Liliana Almendarez unless indicated otherwise. All Rights Reserved. Any downloading, copying or use of images on this website is strictly prohibited without express written consent by Liliana Almendarez.

Untitled #5

Your sisters are gypsies.
I race down the stairs,
down to the subway
as they chase me with their knives
looking for a cop or a priest
whomever will save me
from their screaming facing.
They bury their secrets
in the hollow of a tree
in my backyard, fresh cut
burial plot, squirreled away
alongside their money.
Their greedy fingers
slide along with the earthworms
pointing accusations of thievery.
The angels bury themselves
in their wings and sleep.
My dreams are flashing
red moons and winding stars
against the pale night
in the underground
concrete meadow. Iron trains
run past holding up skirts
and flashing legs in purple
stockings. Your sisters
catch up and pass me red wine
I drink long because I am thirsty
and my life is frozen
at the bottom of the cup.
They laugh and they laugh
as I watch their red lips and
their white teeth come closer.
No one is left inside of us.


All artwork, photos, and text © Copyright 2008-2009 Liliana Almendarez unless indicated otherwise. All Rights Reserved. Any downloading, copying or use of images on this website is strictly prohibited without express written consent by Liliana Almendarez.

Untitled #4

The way of the stream can lead
a senseless soul to an outstretch
of land where effort is made
to bear fruit in an altered way.
The martyrs have been silent
against the wreckage of a coppery
existence. A bone was buried
beneath the roots of the tree.
A breeze in a grey hue,
imposed by the heavy clouds above,
and the open mouth of the lake
can only yield to the intersection
between water and earth.

All artwork, photos, and text © Copyright 2008-2009 Liliana Almendarez unless indicated otherwise. All Rights Reserved. Any downloading, copying or use of images on this website is strictly prohibited without express written consent by Liliana Almendarez.