I walk the tightrope to you heart. On the string of screaming stares we give each other through the night. Winced between dancers and movement of the bodies between us. We never touch; only sift the energy through our palettes of passing people until our bodies reach for an arm. Stable enough to rest our breath until it shakes from the weight. And the tightrope extends from my eyes as I walk backwards through the night.
Sprout the coils of your soliloquy
Beneath your mother’s wings.
Bones of dreams dance when freedom rings
And the bloom can taste the breeze.
I left chocolate ice cream stains beneath your chin.
I wanted to indulge in your young soul for a moment more than socially appropriate.
A precious memory to be sewn into my long term and yours for the time being.
Over time you have retreated; waning your womanly characteristics into the child your mother must have known.
In a bittersweet, didactic daydream, I connect with your mother. I washed your hands and cleaned your face with the napkin.
At this moment I know I have exactly four minutes to collect.
To learn the fast facts of your history, ancestory, and memories, before the reset button functions without fail.
One moment to use the tongue your mother bestowed because you forgot the one handed to you in school. Tell me of the mallet that whipped a whisper.
Lend me one moment to tell me of the time you left your future husband on his knees for weeks, begging for your hand to please.
And let me steal a moment to remember when you found religion at the bottom of a sack of carrot seeds; hands blistered by the weeds and threw care to the breeze.
Lend me a moment more to collect these memories so that I may be a record for the family of the grandmother who lived in the moment
Because that’s all that ever existed.
Quietly you will quake in your bed of things left unsaid. You will burn by the fire of your tongue and leave stains of sweat inset in my head. More times alive than you were dead. But we choose to remember dead instead.
We seperate with goosebumps –
Like pulling apart Velcro
Our skins cry out, alarmed to be defying
Days like these
We worship it,
Not for its perfection,
But for all the moments we wish we could have taken back.
For all the words we should have inhaled instead of spewed.
Days like these
We sit on our thrones alone
Because power comes at a mighty lonely price.
We practice our goodness but never quite get to genuine.
It’s days like these that remind us where we are.
Who has come before us
And how we will pave the way for the others.
Days that are long,
But worth every hustling minute.
We will remember the glory of these days
Not for its perfection
But for its purity.
Collect my love puddles and recycle them back to me
Puddles from the sweat behind my knees, praying you and I will be.
Clutch the emerald rosary
between our fangs.
And that’s how it’s supposed to be.
Sink them deep, my crimson cabernet is yours to keep
Slackline on the silverlining to the highest star
Bring me back to my body
The keeper of my puddles, my crimson, my heart.
-Words by Jasmine Duran and Luiz Castro
Build a legacy.
For the women who created this body deserve recognition
The women who rendered this mind deserve rights.
They created art. They created a dream.
I saw you crying once.
Outside of the bedroom late at night.
We had washed up after a party and dragged in the same old, bitter fight.
Who was I to you? Why couldn’t you show?
So here we are:
You on the livingroom floor.
Me, peering through a crack in the bedroom I wished wasn’t ours. A hallway of mirrors fall between us and we cannot reach each other through our own reflection.
We would only see ourselves.
When you get there you’ll know it.
You’ll know it like your mother’s perfume or the taste of your ex lover’s sweat.
You’ll know it.