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Five Prose Poems by Daniel Romo Strike For Caro The trouble with lightning bolts is the burn. Deceptive jolts humming like flirty increments of singe. The current courses: the body begs for more. To be an electric vessel is akin to be believed in. Washed with the broken wings of fireflies, the antithesis of torn wings of butterflies, ill-equipped vs. ripped. The sky is nothing... and then it is something... We began as caution, at best, and following ultraviolet fissures progressed to the promise of a thunderstorm that was good enough for us. No dream is complete without a little rain. The same nightmare over and over again actually signifies change. My fear of the dark made me more of a man, but I don't mind flooding your arms with my tears. There's healing in your body; buoyancy in comfort and trust. The flashing light enables us to see our steps as we challenge this lifetime's forecast. I look at my charred skin, our clasped fingers, and determine, there is no blast I'm unable to handle. Marrow I hug you hard like disregarding the well-being of your bones. Tears stream down my cheeks, swept up by stubble. An overflowing pond, barren far too long. I hide feelings because I've never learned to disregard self-chiding. I worry I'll weigh you down with my sorrow, but you promise your slight frame can withstand my bulky weight. You know I hurt, even when my words haven't yet been formed. Lips pressed together like the birth of a secret. And before I tell you, you already know the effect my Dad's stroke has had on me. You also understand the strong man you hold is still the aching boy bullied by poor body image. I drop my head and sob, as if your shoulder was the most absorbent bone in the world. Loot I brush the nail polish on as if each of your fingers accuses me of a different betrayal and my apology consists of offering a pretty coat. Providing a manicure that mimics the hope and verisimilitude of fresh paint. I tread on cuticles that could give at any minute but will not drown in my conscience because I have done nothing wrong. Everything you told me not to repeat remains everything you told me not to repeat. There’s a splendor, a wholeness, to the life of a secret. Yet my hands remain shaky reminders that in time, I will also have to confide in you. Because my bruises are buried in bruises calcified to bone. I will ring your doorbell when I pick you up for our next date. Tell you how beautiful you look then hand you a bouquet of white roses hidden from one hand behind my back. While you read the card, I will pull out a shovel from the other hand and pray you’ll continue to map out the blueprint to our future. Any treasure map worth exploring contains more than just a red X and sand. Symphonies Conductors all across the country wave their arms like flapping wings, vigorously practicing for a flight that'll never happen. Scripted patterns to maximize sound. You get dizzy and I get worried and we spin like a frantic concerto. Swaying side to side like a couple caught in a conundrum we can't decipher because neither of us is leading. I worry when your equilibrium runs too hot or cold (and when I lose my cool) and I'm sure you're thinking chill... Leaders of the most prestigious philharmonics have the most challenging names to pronounce. Barenboim. Gergiev. Furtwängler. You dislike confrontation, but we will fight these quizzical spells together. We wrap our arms around each other and hold tight, like a cramming session for every test in life that we will face. Dedication A boy writes a novel about a comet, but it's really about a girl. He hides his love inside a celestial being teasing the sky because he can't decide if symbolism is stronger than life. If art frames a portrait prettier than the actual model. A painter admires his work but wonders how no one noticed that he missed a spot. A microscopic fleck embedded in the flesh just below his model’s left nostril. He hides his face in shame, but his fans just think he's moody. What appears to be poetic license is actually a beauty mark in reverse. What looks like symbolism is often satire. What if stripes are simply apologies censoring the world? |
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