untitled 4.11.18

in a house

by the window

sitting by the window

watching the dew

pale leaves sliding

on wet grass

quiet and yellow

and shimmering

tufts of hair

– sheila c.

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prayers

I think about my grandmothers prayers

under a sunburst ceiling

it was an old blood color

sort of red brown and muddied

I think she wanted my freedom

and god couldn’t see another way

I clearly can’t give life

I’m all dead leaves inside

a manufactured product

of a man who did not hold me

i can’t use your god’s tools

they were never meant for me

– Sheila Cordova

blueness

i know i can’t fit you

in a glass

but boy,

i try

i spend the days measuring you

hanging on your tongue

inhaling your tone

you’re a language

i remember from

another life

you speak to something

lost in me

something I alone

couldn’t find

i drink you slowly

i take you in

like time

my pulse quickens

but my mind softens

underneath you

under you

you are the minute

before sunset

when the day glows

just so

and pink covers

the blinding blueness

that I’ve known

– sheila c

untitled 10.29.17

what heals time?

if time is what heals us? 

Is that a stupid question? 

I just look at my watch 

and my arms follow the tick 

and honestly 

I’m actually full of ticks 

I fiddle with my fingers 

and I stroke the keyboard 

like a cat 

I don’t have a pet 

I can’t handle the commitment of long term care 

my fern plant can survive with a glance 

once a  week 

and the paintings only stare back 

if I focus 

i pour my glasses full and heavy 

like the darkness of 1 am 

and the lightness of noon 

I try to find kindness in the cruelty 

of mankind 

and I see it in the innocence of palm 

trees swaying in storms

and I have seen it in the cloud 

that swims past our existence 

sometimes my thighs shake 

and I see god 

but he quickly fades away 

and I wonder if the love we feel is more like 

a thin coating that our eyes can bear 

sort of like the net separating our mortality 

and the ending that defines us 

lord, I hope I find the kindness 

before the net bursts 

and i am silence. 

– sheila cordova 

bones 

the spine trails

i miss the spine trails

your finger up the bones

that made me

every night

I was never an object

but the object

of your affections

your rejections

a sign outside

it burned through the night

i don’t understand how neon

works

if it even does

work

voicemails can’t convey

what I have been

ruminating

for weeks

i can be quick

i can be lucky

i know it,

i know it, babe

we are a Monday

reminiscing  the Sunday

that we lost

– sheila c