Color Collective Poem

Silver Spring- Benjamin Moore

2120-70

Spring,
A bud, barely blossoming
She stares out

out her window 

in anticipation

Keen to sneak out the kitchen door

she holds her breath

one, two, three

lets it out, back in

inhaling the chilly air

(it hurts her lungs)

When the raindrops

make their way
to the icy branches
of the cherry blossom tree

She spends her days 

out,
in the wilderness
running free

Winter, 

Just an ice cold skeleton in her memory
she glides
through her silver spring.

Her mother

at the kitchen sink

her father gone
the child, she seeks happiness
in the vanishing cold 

her coat made of nylon

She lets her pale lips

kiss the frigid air
and her bones weaken
She leaves those memories 

to be buried 

in the ground
No more despair

Her mouth begins to feel dry

she slowly and thoroughly

moves her still damp tongue

Across her chapped, cracked, colorless lips

The air begins to numb

Her hands

She reaches for the door knob

Back home

But her hand slips off

And comes back

To her side

She decides to sit on the stairs

The ones that lead home

And a single cherry blossom

Falls to her feet

It lays motionless

With a thin layer of snow still under

Her hand reaches out to it

And picks it up

There will be others like it

Replacing the snow

She reaches for the door knob

And says

Goodbye to her silver spring.

Where I'm From

I am from slides and swings
From D’onofrio and Inca Kola
I am from the cross over every bed
Damaged, worn, carved, crafted from wood
And dipped in holy water.

I am from bugambilias
White, purple or pink
But always carry thorns
The ones I did not know of
Until I picked at one.

I am from homemade
Guanabana ice-cream on sweltering days
from short, small stature
Alicia and Regina
and the Merino family tree
I am from fast thinkers,
Jokesters and the prank players.

I am from you choose your own path and enjoy it while it last
From tracing the sacred symbol across my face and chest
Prayers I was told to keep in my heart
But I have lost
Lost and barely keep in my mind.

From Aji and rice
(No matter on what)
From the hearts my uncle used to break
And the kisses he would steal
The joy in my grandmother’s blind
But still, deep green eyes.

I am from the bronze frames on the wooden cabinet
Albums leaking abundance of memories,
And stolen photographs to greedily keep
Under the pillow,
Under the bed,
To salve the distance
Remember the lost faces
Cut, picked from the tree.

I am from Lima, Peru
But my heart,
It belongs to other places too,
I am from where I wish to be
the place that’s absence
Causes my melancholy.

I am from everywhere I have lived
every country I was ever referring to
when I whined, whimpered, whispered,
I want to go home.

And although at moments I feel
I am not there now
I know where I come from
From hugs and kisses and
Te amaré por siempre
I am from the arms of my family
That wrap around me
Like the sun does the day

It always comes back to
where my heart
Wishes to be.
I know in those short moments
those magnificent moments of remembrance
I can‘t help but smile
But get that warm feeling in my heart
that I know
Where
I am from.