Displays of Affection

By Liza Monroy

It’ll wriggle around my features like I’m dead it’ll come in through my

fingers on my shoulders and it’ll rest on

my head kind of like a heavy song full of sand

and old man going, "La, la

la, la" in front of the bathroom

mirror

a piece of meat tied in strings

inching in no skin and deep wrinkles

who would live on a satellite?

who would agree to love

out in infinity

or here in home

with dust covered mattresses in

tiny catacombs

hanging your coat and hat

on termite ridden

level peggys

who wants to see through

two brown mud puddles

at no change

no direction

not a single display of affection

where words lie and harden

like clumps of wet clothes on the floor

it’s just more reason

to resist to go

inside and outside at

the same time

slowly driving you out of

your mind

who would live on a satellite?

with greedy fisted children

and duct tape for food

a random clattering place going nowhere

in a 3 piece suit

an old mathbook with

all the pages ripped out

a hot blank humming computer

screen as sun

a million friends around

but none of them know

your name

your only home underneath

a thumb

your only mirror a

stain

family the characters on television

with wastebasket eyes

and garbage vision

all welcoming your satellites with open arms

and open displays of affection

Rose Muerte!

By Liza Monroy

shave off the rose petals

kind of like you’re peeling a banana

and I’ll show you which one’s worth more

what’s the inside of a rose compared to

potassium

and what’s an intention

without an action

what’s an I miss you

without for God’s sake

what’s a gardener

without a rake?

I never liked him anyway

2 yolks and a crawl

space inside his mouth

a look behind his eyes

like sailors trapped

in a hull writing on its

walls knowing there’ll be no

rescue attempt

that’s the kind of impression

I get

when I see him babering

their stems

their families on the land already

wept and threw their funeral

flowers into the water

hastening to forget

much like the gardener

hastening to conceal

a smile that never shows behind a silver mustache of

steel

grown in caucasian

fields of

face

little lemon eyelids

a rose forms the lip

here they’re speaking

while his eyes

start blinking

but he babers

her tongue

before she has a

chance to say

what others keep

to themselves

behind a branch

where you see

hearts just

breaking there

bark eyes follow

him as he walks off

the lawn shears

still in hand

no shed for him

no rescue from land

Death Passes Over

By Rose

Have you not felt it?

Have you not

Felt his touch?

Death, enemy or friend?

Either way,

If you haven’t felt him

Then you are lucky.

Too many times

Has death passed over me

And touched my friends.

Always leaving them weak

And horribly vulnerable.

Leave us alone Death!

Let me and my friends

ALONE!!!

If you’ve never felt Death

Then you’ve had no grief.

Be grateful for your life

And pray he passes…

Pray that Death will

Leave you alone.