Fight
By Gabriela Marie Milton
Author of Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings
Purple roots cover all trails that go to the foothills.
Veins that the earth pushed to the surface.
I smell lavender.
Your words grow in the breeze like a dough under the whispers of the moon.
For three thousand years, sung by the poets of this land,
the naked shoulder of the mountain reigned in stillness.
The sky made itself invisible into a wooden box where my grandmother kept her rings:
memories of loves that now fit in a small chamber.
The sea and the afternoon’s breaths eclipse the taste of your colors.
The blue that slipped between the same branches of the old poplar tree
stares me in the eyes.
Clouds ossify the fight of the earth against the earth.
Between my palms the body of a thin yellow candle.
I remember walking on a street where children were hungry and had no shoes.
I took my shoes off and wiped my tears with the back of palms.
Under my eyes the skin became red and rough.
I wrote I love you on your left cheek.
I threw all the silver coins I had onto the dust of the street.
They were meant for the dead.
Let them help the living.
I remember your hand caressing the silk of my dress.
I purge all memories except one that belongs to the future.
You and I chanting to the incarnation of love under a tree on the island where I was born.
The island where it is always spring and the earth that does not fight against the earth.
Did I tell you I was born on an island?
If Only… Autumn
By Gabriela Marie Milton
Author of Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings
If only I could put my palm into yours for one single sunset
when the autumn’s fingers smell corn silk,
and the eyelids of the sea cast spells on the cheeks of the stars.
Bathe with me at the end of the shore
where milk foam washes the feet of the children
and leaves traces of white shivers.
A pink conch tolls the waves announcing the homecoming of the chrysanthemums.
The pain of birth leaks prayers on your lips
like half naked Sundays leak monotony and coolness
on the yellow walls of the old city.
From the other side of your naked eyes,
I gather your tears in a wicker basket.
Laurel leaves hide under your pillow.
If only…
Autumn…