Monday, April 25, 2011

Yael Villafranca


By myself I feed an array of burned down candles.

Mama dreamed I would grow tall onstage,

bleed one raw blue sound into the world’s face.

Carve the lyrics on the crossbeams.

A bracelet from the clear case. A satin scarf

blooming out from my face like a gill so I could

float like an tropical actress. Prices broken into

22 hours, 33 hours.

He plays me music to think to. From when he

was younger and stopped burning walls.

I leaf through so many songs left in the air every day:

For a morning smoke before the rail comes

For glasses hurled to the floor at a party

For how I took his hand in the car

For days I don’t speak to anyone.

The flustered craving is for a sureness.

I wish to appear strange and treasured,

depending on the light, key, and shadow.

We all would die for crystal effortless melody.

When I croon I’m a firstclass loser, you’ll think,

she doesn’t know how to hang on

to anything. Not anger. Not such small feelings.

And I want you to look at me and know.

Listen close. Recognize.


Yael's blog
Delirious Hem

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