there was a piano she loved
cherubs carved on cherry wood
hands ripple over ghost keys
she nods off, chin to chest
do you want to lie down? no
under the palms in a pink housedress
what is your name? she asks
again cherubs playing violins
sunlight slips behind ferns
from What Happens is NeitherFind more by Angela Narciso Torres at the library
Copyright © 2021 Angela Narciso Torres
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.
two days after grandfather died
his letter arrived from Manila
sky blue aerogramme
trifolded and sealed
by the aunt who kept vigil
typing for him what words
he had left on the Smith Corona
with the broken lowercase i
that pierced holes through paper
I remember school nights
finding him still
awake listening
for my backpack’s thud
on the wood floor
leading to his bedroom
slowly he’d rise
a smoker’s cough
clearing his throat
his voice tunneling
in half-dark
Are you here now, hija?
a direct translation
from Tagalog
Nariyan ka na, anak?
meaning You’re here, child?
meaning I’ve been waiting, dear one
holding the crinkled sheet
against the October sky
I find another sky
deeper blue
pinpricks of light
shining like Day-Glo stars
Yes, Papa. I’m here.
from What Happens is NeitherFind more by Angela Narciso Torres at the library
Copyright © 2021 Angela Narciso Torres
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.
My first year living in America
the scent of frying garlic
sent me weeping. My eyes
swept the somber avenues,
starving for color. I devoured
the aquamarine of broken glass,
a wire festooned with yellow shoes,
the shower of plum blossoms
on a sidewalk. The memory
of sour mangoes made rivers
in my mouth. At the market, I picked
the greenest nectarines, dredged them
in salt that stung my chapped lips.
Words I hoarded like rock
candy, melted on my tongue
like my too-hard r’s. Range Rover, red
robin, river rock. I practiced
into the ear of an empty flagon,
reciting litanies to the saint
of lost things. The walls
echoed with whispers.
Lying lily-still in the goblet
of night, I drank the croons
of nameless birds.
from What Happens is NeitherFind more by Angela Narciso Torres at the library
Copyright © 2021 Angela Narciso Torres
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.
