poetry
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Her spirit was a Mustang destined to roam free
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Her body needed to twist away the tension bend it’s back to open the chest to flow in Sync with breathe to the now.
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To my fellow teachers Reading rosters with names that don’t roll off the tongue the names that require extra thought extra effort and the respect to be pronounced correctly there’s always an Appreciation for the attempts And there’s always a story mine is of a soap opera a Gypsy in love with a naval officer…
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Walking Blindfolded with a red scarf on a tight rope Senses electrified Core strong Feet fulfilled with faith
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Encoded in our DNA the spirit of our ancestors Fly with us Every day.
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A couple balancing on each other as the subway moves Eyes locked Hers searching His sure and smiling
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Smooth Jazz Sunday afternoon easy like black leather couches flowing like two lovers on a dance floor Jazz sounds that smell like mahogany.
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Sitting with navy blue bleach stained sweatpants La Virgencita dangling from her young neck Golden hoops and a messy bun of black hair, reaching inside an Andean woven handbag for Jon Krakauer ‘s Missoula Earmarked page 29 Reading, radiating power.
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Writing outside the lines Creating new parameters Limitless Riding the waves of eternity.
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Kindred connections Like Sequencing numbers weaving made from Cosmic Dark space Black hole loops through Time Consistently Reuniting for brief moments in the soul’s Cycle
Yesenia Guerra 