Miguel Hernández

I walk on in shade, filled with light: does day exist? Is this my tomb or my maternal dome? A pulsing beats against my skin like a cold shard that sprouts, hot, red, tender. Perhaps I’ve not yet been born, or have always been dead. Shade rules me. If this is life, what could death […]

The onion is frost closed and poor. Frost of your days and my nights. Hunger and onion, black ice and frost, big and round. My child was in a cradle of hunger. He nursed on onion blood. But your blood, frosted with sugar, onion and hunger. Dissolved into moon, a dark woman pours thread by […]