Lines for Lovers By Silvia Gonzalez

Lines for Lovers By Silvia Gonzalez

CHICAGO, IL-

Baile De La Obsidiana- Dance of The Obsidian(a)


Dancer between a rhythm and a reality
hips open in bloom to a new song while
lips, releasing letters into long legged vowels
whisper in the ear of another hour
An eyelash once spilled
from the bottom of a wink
predicting tomorrow’s weather.
Clever storyteller
a golden hue sweat
creased between brown melanin
and a red blood beating heart
from flushed, and sweaty movement–
historic commotion
tucked between ancestor tongues
and passed on lyricism for years to come–
I arrive
like the daughter of Quetzalcoatl
Ridin through on spirit feathers,
Fire eyes, and obsidian
knife in hand
to cut through the ash
and unbury the memory
of why I am here. 
I move to shake the dust.

 

Series of Vignettes, 1: The Frying Pan

My mother called them servicios

I’ve never heard her spew out so matter of factly, a fragility so iron willed it struck like thunderous logic hanging from a Sunday pew.

She explained that men will only have you for their servicios, that once the good feelings and mariposas die, you will find yourself picking up dirty underwear and smelly shoes. But the hair. Wait until the day he wakes up and his hair is a mess and you wont recognize the man you thought you married. He will wake up angry and you wont even know why. So, my mother explained, “si vas a metar la pata, metela bien.”

I should mention she left him and kept him away after threatening his abusive ass with a pan and the glory of a strong willed madre. You must know what I am talking about.

That’s why I refuse to call you at 2 in the morning after smelling the scent of another’s yearning I politely turned away. Yet another transaction declined.

Because if I’ve learned anything thus far, it’s that we have been conditioned to treat other human beings as commodities. We hurt and we cry and become little novelas that are tucked away either in the bottles we drink, the bottom of the pillow,  the kisses of another body, or even, as they say, “swept under the rug” to save some face and keep shit tidy. So I wont call, because I think sometimes we just have to leave–shut the door, take nothing but our will to be better, and take care of our own.

One day though, we will remember we are fleshed soul and that in this lifetime we are meant to be more than a service. That every inch of mouth should be caressed the way the calm waters call to the sand. I hope to everything precious that I learn to love– and that someone learns me the way the sky caresses moon in all its phases.

I intend to have my mother feel like the mountains the aztecs praised everyday she is still alive. I want this woman to know I am her and she is me and that all the men that have ever hurt us are not a reflection of us but rather a lesson we had to learn. Look at us now mami, we are mountain tops, we kiss the sunset and the sunrise because it loves us back everyday it is re-born. We. Look at us, mami, we too, are re-born.

I learned in our conversation that day, that I intend to love. I intend to have a love so great, I am unafraid to pick up a frying pan to defend it.

Pero, I will not be anyone’s pendeja.

 

Love letter for the Self
 

When I shed the sadness from my body like last night’s sweat clung clothes from too much dancing (will there ever be such a thing?) –I realize I am.

I am body and hair and heart and things I cannot see. I am bones and the aggregate of microorganisms. I am water. Everyday I heal, is a miracle by the work of science. I am the breath of stardust. 

I am the sunshine of the Aztec suns, before any destruction, all five smiled on me. 

I am solid. Earth. Obsidian rituals. 

Mother’s prayers. I am a curving spine braided in miracles from too much re-membering. 

I am chalk and hopscotch in a gray city.

I am mezcal and savila. 

I am the linaje of brown melanin bursting with jade reflections and volcanic ash. Love profound, allows me to be. 

Between. At once.

Everything at once and tenderly. 

 

The Language of Light

 

I want windows big enough  to hold

vast light

cleansing every dark corner in the room

washing it in warmth

and revealing every detail that was left unsaid once

I want the sun

to cling fast to my open mouth

and without hesitation

kiss back to life a garden

blooming long vowels.

-On staying lit

 

I constructed a monument-

Memory romances what it misses. we mumble and hum untraceable songs while our body vibrates to the sound of every letter we save in the roof of our tongue. It is home, you see. It is home to savor the letters before we swallow them whole again. Tired bricks build yearning in the back of my throat before I consume the catharsis of missing. 

 

Memory means that much

I want my poems to cry the way Iztaccihuatl wept for Popocateplt so that each letter blossoms a new volcano to remind the people of what I said once. 


More on Silvia:

Silvia Gonzalez is an  Artist and Educator living in Chicago creating zines to address police violence, power and architecture, labor rights, imagination, play, freedom and confinement. She is a fierce believer in young people and possibility.  Her most recent creative writing is drawn from her connection to language, liminality, love and the process of re-membering the self. 

 

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