joshua tree, mojave desert

i sit inside abandoned silence,
how many more
tears can possibly fall
before my body
exhausts itself
of moisture,
my eyes, my skin,
my veins
dry up
and my heart
turn to husk,
a clenched fist made from
four caverns of stone

coming of winter

frost fell for the first time
last night, softly threatening
like the absence of touch
after the hurricane of your hands
or the misstep in my soul
after too many sad love songs;

vuelo del otoño

la primera escarcha del año cayó
anoche amenazando, quieta,
como la ausencia del toque despues
del huracán de tus manos, o
la claridad de mi misma despues
de un exceso de baladas tristes;

unsounded lyric

the sound of something dying deep inside me;
a dark rhythm, insistent
pounding of silence
that reads
lasciate ogne speranza,
one language not enough
to assuage
the piece of me
that now lies quiet
on a crag of sunburnt earth
close to the divine.

What remains
rages, essence and flame
spiraled higher because
I still breathe,
hardly knowing how but
I dance
over mirror-shards
of who I have been,
defy you
to define me,
pick out the parts of my
the promise and power I alone
for as long as I restrain
my doubt, refrain
from turning my head and
over might-have-beens.