Edwin Torres

 

Three Poems

 

The Interrupted Blanket

the effort to remain ambiguous
while your heart is beating
—broken heart as shadowplay

I stand on the calculated cliff
inner rinsing against telestration
—adhesion of a sun cloud

jagged reminders
trying to look past deeply torn tensions
—just say it, are you fitting in or not

say oh, and make a good void
oh —how did that feel
what creates your properly responsive emptiness

where does my blinking mechanism
ride me, did you know
—bees sleep in flowers holding each other’s feet

and the unsleeping puzzle
—dreams
of its missing piece

the world outside these walls
is intent
—on making me face it

am I to give in, or is that giving in
one kind of freedom
—looking to fit in

 

What Dark Is When Stepped On

I want to give you one bulb for each one buried
Each one of your fingers
You have one filament, one wattage, one fuse
For pores to acknowledge receptivity

I want to give you one life for each one passed
Each one switched—can I be the one who stops for you
Can I be one sorrow, one bliss, one repeated assemblage of loss
To acknowledge availability

I want to give you one breath for each dark—stop, would you
Each one centered—stop here, in the pattern
For one day, one walk, one melted intelligence
To take the heart away—stop here

To be the one who stops—curious with darkness
One borrow, one blame, one burn
Each one lit, maybe, one take
My weight at each step

To hold you, one moment, for every one missed
Can I be that—each one telling, what each one says
You have one unknown, one interior reflection
For countless imperfections to arrive

I want to wordlessly exchange each darkness
Each one softed upon
You have one neck, one mouth, one touch
To tell me so

 

It Was Nectar You Heard in the Shadows

bee whisperers     save the swarm
and tell me when a poem     is being written
somewhere I can’t see     somewhere
far from me
a poem is being written     conceived
reborn     out of the hive
somewhere     a resurrection
is capturing the ear of a bee whisperer
riding the wind     of a thousand hums
in every stanza     I’ve never heard
is the new poem     I’ll never see
but be
up there     in the air I can
just about smell if I      just about
tilt my scent     to paint gender out of direction
how fluidity
defines a species     out of its time
to sliver a murmur     a group in midflight
to part clouds     with susurration
says cloud, well        what do you mean by that