Silvia Bonilla

You are the terrible hour now, what provokes the disorder
in my veins. You're what shatters in place
of the window. These clouds are giant eyes
upon roofs across the street. I become my own
threatening flow of sadness as your orange
hay-light grows, impatient, mouthy. I'm using these lips
as barriers to the tongue dangerous
landscapes. The wizard verbs in use to describe You.

Convinced an animal races through me as well.
The wood mask that covers you, hides a door.
And your hard chest opens with the knock
of a beak, reminding me of the shivering act
of happiness, the momentary scaffold upon the soul,
rows of infinitives because there is delight in lost.

Silvia Bonilla is a Saltonstall Foundation for the Arts fellow. She has received scholarships from The Vermont College of Fine Arts and Colgate Writers Conference. Her work has appeared in Green Mountains Review, Rhino, Reed Magazine, Cream City Review, Jet Fuel Review, Pen and Brush, The Puritan, and Cimarron Review. She is the author of An Animal Startled By The Mechanisms Of Life. She holds an MFA in poetry from The New School.
Instragram: bonillasilviap

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