The Poetry Project

Mayra A. Rodríguez Castro


I leave at the start, let
the seed soak in soil

my back turned against
the trees, I inhale the color

of probable flowers
the smell of pollen

it will be birdsweet

the hands of a child
will grow in proportion

his pupils will be black
the table will be set

for us, a lover or a mother
will adorn the kitchen

with steam and cilantro
I will leave before

the vase is fired
the clay will be wet

The Changing Wing

I saw small insects outside
they were white, pale violet

tanning under the sun
the grass was still

they slept, as if they could
closed delicate eyelids

they flew.

New-winged animal, where
are you going with a fragile

body gliding on peonies
seeing pink for the first time

Issue 19