Wednesday, February 06, 2013

Published in Salt River Review

Sergio Ortiz

this is my story
and place of birth

a wheelchair
a body wrapped in a sack

a childhood jerked around
like an unwarranted curse

and the stubborn useless desire
for a pair of tailored hands

climbing up my thighs


You, in my gravest hour,
perfumed with silence—what images

caused your fruit to fall?
 You left me shooting
at non-existent stars.

Nothing ever removed the water
you gradually painted on my lips,

no theatres, nightclubs, tuxedos.
Not even jetliners
or churches.

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