Apr 222013

by Andres Montoya


O peach,

open your meat


and together we’ll be a song.


Peach, be soft and weep gently



over the valleys of my tongue


your red-brown heart is a song


your skin is bitter like suffering


and your breath

soft and orange


like a child dancing


giggling at the wonderful

stomp of his feet.


this is about death

about the skin’s way of wrinkling

a young man.




this is about slaughter

about pigs finding

their pit and a man

with a knife in his hand


mariachis moan

into the evening

and children are laughing,

running around the chairs of the old,

old ways.



come and gather

my eyeballs

like fruit

from a tree

and see

the other cheek of the world.




today I forget what poetry

is supposed to do.


I have nothing left

to retreat to.




as a child

I was a flower

dancing for my pueblo.


this was long ago

when siete lenguas

was a cumbia





I am not afraid to be wounded by you, sweet singing birds.


I am afraid only of the lukewarm silence

slicing the ear drum.




I see too many writers afraid of their vision, afraid to admit their hope




Come, let us find

the canal’s cold kiss,


honey’s sting

to the tongue.