Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Eulogy For Yorelys Beaten, raped, and murdered, our child lies in a coffin brutally deserted. What monsters with nightmares hidden in their eyes do things like this? Neither day nor night can heal her now. Soon the heat will fuse her lurid eyes  to diamonds her sullen tongue to quartz.   Then she will fly and never bleed again. 

Ghost  A dark jungle,  looking like a dark jungle, is where I am never quite myself. I don't want to trip  over its silence. I don’t want a life apart  from the pain I conceal  from portions of myself, from your voice crying  to someone else  come play in the rain, love . This is not the same summer rain. Our first season of separation I counted dead roses  in the back yard. I didn't write our names on the mailbox. You couldn't listen to my dreams. I couldn't question yours. The scars are there.  I don’t know how many years I spent  trying to forget, afraid of how many years  I spend trying to remember.

twilight—  a hawk builds its nest  in a windy place

new year’s morning... the hawk builds its nest  in a windy place

Seasoning My eyes are rehearsing for when the winter solstice ends. As the light wanes I see what I thought was reluctance covering my face.  I want to expand every moment into an emotional chemistry that includes the smell and texture of every lover I’ve had. But the solstice is ending, old recalled lovers who look like glasswing butterflies stretched across other summers find the pot of gold at the end of my rainbow.

A Litany for Survival For A.L. An elephant walked into my bedroom reciting a litany for survival   She spoke about her brown mother and sister having died too many deaths that were not their own  She spoke about redemption and a new religion She spoke about winter people taking off their blood masks and monuments for the children of war She spoke about hunger and blind feet trying to find their way to the sun She spoke about a greedy black unicorn that was not free She spoke about having two faces and a frying pan to cook up her daughters She spoke about two men with stone eyes making love in the hallway they were lying like felled maple Soon the hallway was covered with these beggars and I couldn’t pass over them Perhaps I wasn't meant to survive

fading light… the steady thrum of rain on the windows plowed earth… bullet-riddled boys littering the streets vacant sky— a graveyard angel rising above the pebbles hurricane season… the severed branches still green autumn rain... I collect my thoughts and turn a page moonlight moiré … autumn waves foam on the sand shoulder to shoulder we stand at his wake... autumn rain boarding windows the hurricane moves closer to my island autumn twilight... crossing the river stone by stone sloping hills now and then a crow caws

At the End of Night I exist to be conquered I, set against all other I’s, even nature, am a stillborn poem taken out of  my mother’s  pain.  Once I was immortal beside the sea condemned to endless mornings, empty of the knowledge of manmade rituals until out of my mouth that knows came the shape I was seeking for reason.   Now I am lost among  the stiff trees.

autumn deepens … the taste of rain and sunset

To the Survival of Lizards Call me Narcissus for I complain of being lonely call me what I miss whatever it is call me lizard and arrogant   nightmare on your blood moon your itch to destroy the indestructible faces of important men. Call me diseased with problems of original sin because of my worries call me your myth of father and son your determination in the most conceited image within me for I am you in your most moral assumptions scuttling through the cracks created to admit me in your living rooms my honor comes with your hate by imitation and your refusal to live on.

red moon  summer falling away  from the trees

That Side of a Shade of Sorrow My daily crucifixion is to be alone.   My voice has that side of a shade of sorrow, it is calcified.  Perhaps from the anger of both my father and I.  I dream incessantly about us working in unison, but my dreams eventually turn into nightmares.  I just realized my home is not his house I am free to come and go as I please.  The altar has fallen, and I shall learn to conquer yes.   I never loved you, so free me quickly before I destroy us.

Paper Thin Walls He speaks in a scorching voice inventing what he cannot promise. I wonder if my neighbor listens to my toilet flushing, believing the other is always lying in wait.

Nation Look mother, I peeled away your anger and stopped building sand castles by the sea. The nation is riddled with thieves and no door opens easily. My childish dreams? Fulfilled, and laid to rest. 

poem was entered into a competition

The Deadly Mirror Inconclusive thoughts are what I hear inside my head: because the mind’s eye lit the sun.   Must I give up the world to be saved?  Shall I forget his lips on my nape to write what I perceive to be a new earth? My imagination flutters like a swallow, and cries like a hungry baby. I sit and play the saxophone in self contemplation.   The mirror tells the truth, but not enough to merit constant thought. I am folding inward over and over.  Six inches of words and I am betrayed, hypnotized into believing I have achieved all there is to achieve in this art. Therefore, I start a new contemplation of the swallow and I listen to the fragment of phrases like Imitations, Life Studies and Notebook.  I will never find the one flower that sustains all the earth.

at the hospital a sudden change in temperature,  malady of autumn I am utterly empty only a name tag to identify me as survivor tulips search for me but in this winter light I have wanted to efface myself the air is calm yet tulips fill it like a loud noise I must concentrate commit myself to rest, place all my attention on taking it easy

Headache Soon I’ll be a fugitive of my own skin, raw. I’ve chosen the rare sensation of  tainted blood to outfit my bow of thorns.  Today I will not clutch a fist in the wind’s sneer, nor will I disenchant my examiners. I will wait for the postman to deliver the world turning from my rented attic; wait for the headache to ease, or go away all together.

Rain and Sound Listen to me as one listens to the rain: we are distracted once again.  Night approaches with its dense cloak of fear, an assault for which there is no cure. It is never winter here, yet the hibiscus have been censored like men trying to show their affection for each other.  Air, water, and flower there is no weight in these words. Night has the figurations of mist. Listen to me as one listens to the rain : (Censor my desire for writing you poems.) Not attentive, not distracted, only as if I were the rain. Hear me out until the asphalt is wet.  You are you in night steam.  You enter my eyes as your steam crosses the street.  The sun does not varnish the curve. We are both steam.   Steam of another censored flower, lotus.