Untitles #3

Our grandfather gave us chocolates,
soaked in rum, with hard white shells
me and my sister gathered them
like robin's eggs, hid them
in small wooden boxes. He thought
we loved them and we did, but not
to eat. The bells for the flock
would ring across the valley of lights.

Our grandmother made us scrambled eggs,
nopalitos in red chile sauce, refried beans
with fresh tortillas from her blue-tiled kitchen.
The memory of the first bite of sour and spice
still makes my mouth water. She broke open
an aloe leaf and bathed my sunburned back.
The bells would ring across the valley of lights.

They never told us about martyrs or read us
bedtime stories. Instead, the waters flood down
the mountain when the earth split open
and the horses were swallowed up whole
and the bells continue to ring across the valley.


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 #2

The seconds here, wasp's wings and inverted
dead spiders gathered by the corner
of brick and grass. What's left of us
when the peaches have dried up (or left stolen)?
No fruit was safe when the squirrels were gathering
for their winter. No barking dog deterred
the furry thieves from their feast as one-by-one
the green peaches were picked away in an early harvest.

The hours here are measured by the wind
and the brittle leaves gathered in the corner
of brick and fence. What's left of us
when the roses have died on the vine?
No petals were safe against the cold autumn breeze
as the hand of winter began to turn the page.
No prowling cat could scatter enough birds.
What's left now in this cruel hour of morning sunrise?


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 #1

We have ways of exposing tender skin
at the most inopportune time only to find
white scars blending into the pigment.

Long grasses moving against the wind
create hollow sounds of running water
the din of city traffic is washing out. 

We have ways of pulling ourselves into tight knots
in the early hours before dawn only to find
unraveling threads being picked apart by nervous fingers. 

The crowding bodies impose themselves
and young girls with round eyes look helpless
against the tide, they slowly blend in and fade.


We have ways of staring at dark matter
and not even notice that we've lost parts
of ourselves in the sky-spanned tango.


************
These pieces are all in their draft phase...the next ten need to tweaked.
Also working on titles. 





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.