People like my poems better when They are serious and lament the fading Vessels in my cornea, the fog of days How I’ll be the last one left on the deck At the bottom of one of the great oceans. They don’t want to read about the cure And how I will never stop listening To Robert and his lovely sliced mouth I don’t care how old I get. Poems are like Fists or lipstick, why waste them on me Trudging through the park with my free Pandora and infectious truths, songs from before the new Cool kids were born and endless, in the time of disco naps Delicious chain smoking, the world and its innumerable fires Then and now and now. A voice bleeds beneath my ribs Into the rubber-band palms and baby lawns and empty cans Crammed into the recycling, its triangle logo reminds me of radio Active garbage buried at the core. We break. We sing the familiar Because it feels soft and always. The numbers rise like souls Flying into the hole no one can see, and did I tell you my arms Carry decades of lockets shaped like metal hearts, corazónes ready To click open or shut depending on what I can never tell. There are so many, all that promise and defeat coiled around My brittle turquoise view.
Emma Trelles is the author of Tropicalia(University of Notre Dame Press), winner of the Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize and a finalist for Foreword Indies poetry book of the year. She is working on a second book, Courage and the Clock. A CantoMundo fellow and the recipient of an Individual Artist grant from the Florida Division of Cultural Affairs, she teaches at Santa Barbara City College and curates the Mission Poetry Series. For more, visit emmatrelles.com.