She moves for the closest cup, fill her glass and raises it to the light. Dusty clouds of alkaline. Bubbles settle like fresh snow on cement. Swirl the glass; physics follows water into whirlpools and she watches water dance in her handmade cocoon. Death be to bubbles, birth be to monoons. She controls the earth, the time, and the rules.
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.
Roots thick as blood
Tied to the vows of the womb we shared
A woman’s bond coiled in cold intentions.
Suffocate a moon-time flow of a new direction.
Heartbeat in the background Tells us of the time we do not have.
Regressed by a memory.
Drowned by a dream.
Is my psyche playing tricks on me?
Blood and memory –
The foundation of the altercation.
You. My legacy’s contention.
Through the ground
You raise your hands
Crack the sidewalk
And a flower remains.
You always knew
How to find a way.
She drifts to the gust of her gut feeling.
Dexterous, dirty hands of color and class: lead me in dangerous directions.
Thin eyes: widen by me and the inhalation of side-street dreams.
Thick body: release the masochist of memories that once chiseled your frame and allow me to pulsate new perspectives.
Pieces of you enter through pieces of me and slip on a new dream.
Paper airplanes of pleasantries
Coast along the morning breeze
Creating desire lines they tease
Thoughts of you and me.