i was fine

in every crevice

filled with appropriate fluids

blood pumping,

organs throbbing (?),

oxygen doing whatever it does

getting along.. just fine

now I am weeping over your tools

your beautiful fine, handmade tools

i am distraught at the realization

I will never be fine again

jesus christ,

this will be ceaseless joy

or unflinching agony

I wipe my snot quietly,

in the kitchen.

I grind the coffee beans,

heat the water,

aerate the milk,

whip honey & cinnamon into a paste.

I bring your mug to your hand

and i linger when our skin meets.

I sit next to your knees

and forget the thought

in one of our breaths

I laugh and hold your stare..

as if I could do anything else..

– sheila c.

there is a place in the outskirts of La Mosquitia that smells like my grandmother’s embrace

it is indomitable, it is unshaken, it is unmoved

virile roots break through acres of dark soil and replace it with breathing spirals of greenery that could swallow this world

that wild lives laced inside of me and I carry it everywhere

it’s true you’ve never seen it

but I hope you feel it in my absence

shei c.

it’s the little sense

the peering lecture

swallowed deeper

living tucked in words

in the bit of resonance

languishing in tone

all the pieces buckling

the knees, also

there’s no innocence

none left at all

only need remains

– sheila c

i fold the laundry

i dry the dish

i open the carport

i close the door

i type the words

but the words own me

the world owns me

the very beating of my heart owns me

it’s all very troublesome

I claw at freedom

and freedom pushes back

“don’t claw at me” she says

well, fuck.

 

– sheila c.

 

it’s night here and

the ambulances are blaring

one after the next

i wanted to give you this

in case time gets in the way

take in the air

like the first

like the last

fill your hands

with clay

with sand

with paint

fill your mouth

with lovers

with drink

with rage

but never default to revenge

eat your words

when you have to

(if you have to)

and don’t let them forget

you’re from the jungle

born from dark earth

the very clay dirt

formed by singed hands

in a coral hearth

what the fuck do they know?

-sheila c.

our chaos reigns

even me, in

i find myself contented

unsticking from the traps

smiling, tearing skin as I go

it feels good to feel something

it feels right to feel suffering

to be folded up and stuffed into

an envelope

flattened

whole

from nothing to something

another one,

another,

slow.

sheila c.

the cardinal came by today

little flash of red pulsing life

i am jealous of his vigor

his will..

long ago I told a myself a lie

and I told it so often

i began to believe it

it exists now in the space between dreams

and stillness

a silent hum I can’t escape

respite exists only in the seconds

the second I open my eyes

the second I smell the citrus in my panicked tea

the second I type the words I need said

the second I imagine taking a last breath

and being born again

a red breast and beak and vigor

there is no respite like the seconds

but there is no punishment like them either

– sheila c.