Volume One, Issue 3

Ana M. Fores Tamayo

Easter Sunday

Eisenberg’s silence screams strike
While this sad sorrowful music hauntingly
And in my soul the
adjunct shrieks
No one
on Easter Sunday.
Harsh harsh is the world crying.
Cruel severe discordant I stand,
Abrasive to the powers of the steel mill,
To the chained rigor
and the empty barrels of the stunning stench
Of sweating men
And bleating cattle
I fall.
But then the music bowls me over,
Sweeps my head away in spasms
Of reverie,
While I wander
Deep into the forest of my dreams
Deep into the reaches of my entrails
Deep into the sockets of my death.

My classes for Summer Session have been cancelled.

Labor Day 2015

Sun streaming through the years of experience
in an age of neverland blues.
Labor ravages forward yet the music soars,
pedestals lie naked in Mount Coutepec
and green is our valley.

The Anahuac wild man fiercely twirls
Tunes of yesterday's eclectic mix of sound.
But the music's ethereal ecstacy hums unearthly.
It whines wistful wisteria,
it lulls a cadance that rises and falls,
The inflection, the intonation that beats
the rhythm and pulse, the lilt of the
tempos up and down
as it swings my pulse into fragile stride.
Ehecatl softly caresses the tendrils at the nape of my neck,
and I wipe a bead of sweat hesitating on my brow.
My mind wanders, it lifts with the words
the god of wind whispers into my ear
while I peer at the boys playing hopscotch
along the trellis bound garden.
A beautiful black regal wisp of a woman
sits serenely, self-possessed,
watching her boys at play,
savoring the reverie of music
stolen from the ears of passersby,
the humming of the drums,
the beat of the blue snake's heart
and the boys skipping one two three
as the stones crevice and take me back to
the tzompantli my daughter excavated
underneath the hundreds of years of human misery.

Civilizations built on the backs of the enslaved,
migrations gone amok.

Where are we going with our technosounds,
our buzzing centers, our smartphones, our technology unbound?

I listen to his falsetto voice rising up above the heavens,
soothing the child jumping, catching his brother at play.
I hear the change in rhythms as his air diminishes,
as it alters, modifies, metamorphoses and re-energizes
into another dimension, into another sphere.

So I sit back,
and I look at the boys, I see them take a breath
in the hot languid air.
I watch the mother get up,
erect, even as she calls for them:
it is time to go.
I see the pedestal, just a piece of rock,
the trellis, Quetzalcoatl's garden built up, tended,
and I realize that all is transitory.

The music stops, the singing ends.
The voices die.

Ivied Jungle

Incandescent fires malign
the serpent of my desires
as I sit vacantly staring at the
Brazilian instrument that shimmers
like a sumptuous sculpture,
radiant against the brown-skinned tone of wood,
the pellets of its music hanging
string by string to lyric, soundless of
hubris, hungers amalgamated
to form one tone,
one sound,
one pitch of nightfall.

Yet the horse neighs quietly in its corner
and listens to the wood, cold with expectation.

The silence of the snows deepen
in the winter of her discontent
and she cannot shake the shadows
beloved but abandoned,
bemused yet so bewildered...

Where are we headed?
Why do the wind chimes linger when they sing?
When will the headstone cross its picketline to revel in
that moment of forbidden time?
What will the rood bear if not the burden
of the ancients, the worries of her history,
the tribulations of a life gone wrong?

The masks upon the wall all stare at her
beyond the ages,
the shadows lurk in silenced dreams to shutter her
misunderstood vexations.
But she gets up, looks over at the wind chimes
purposely pealing their yet not blossomed bells,
and then she shepherds slowly over to her ivy,
to her green-eyed forest,
as she begins to water the jungle of her heart.

Ana M. Fores Tamayo: "Being an academic not paid enough for my trouble, I wanted instead to do something that mattered: work with asylum seekers. I began to advocate for marginalized refugee families from Mexico and Central America.

"Working with asylum seekers is heart wrenching, yet satisfying. It is also quite humbling.

"My labor helped me with my own sense of displacement, being a child refugee, always trying to find home. I write about these thoughts on my blog. In parallel, my poetry is the hidden side I don't often let others see, though lately, this has been evolving. I recently published in Acentos Review, The Raving Press, and have forthcoming poetry in Fron//tera, from Spain."

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