Skip to content →


The almost-neon sheen of moss

spreading like a stain on

the ash tree’s grooved bark,

the hammock’s frayed rope

to which the finches return,

trailing silk to their nests,

but mostly the quiet

of a neighbor’s house, white

drapes billowing, bring back

those silences I moved in

as a child, a shadow slinking

through empty rooms.

Dust motes tunneled light above

the cold floor where, belly-down

I sprawled, goose feather in hand.

If I lay there long enough,

if I brushed the feather

on a fixed spot on the pebble-

washed floor, how long before

I’d make a dent? The point

is not that when night fell

there was barely a scratch. The point

is how, armed with a feather,

I believed I could make a mark.

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.

Published in Angela Narciso Torres Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.