(A sorceress implores a mortal man)

by Rosana Garcia

A yawning desire gapes like a hungry mouth,
it comes from my body and the darkened caves
recessed within me, primal and on the hunt
for the land that promises great bounty.
The map drawn by the earth leads to you.

I want to feel skin on skin, chest on breast,
the little hairs that cover you like grass
on a prairie, and I could ride, as if on horse,
capture you with the weapon that is nature
made, my siren song, the cup you must fill.

I'll tell you how to release me: it only takes
a fingertip drawn from wrist to inner elbow,
lips pressed hard on my spine, a trickle
of touch up my thigh and I'll unravel, I'll let
you come into my spell, make you magical.

(c) 2007 understar productions and Rosana Garcia

by Rosana Garcia

We were drinking in the name of her sadness, her anger,
her broken heart, sharing stories of male faults and failures.

But the song came, familiar, rhythmic, pulsing
in Spanish, a painful bittersweet jolt from the past,
from the island of my birth. The tears well in my
heart: the only thing to do is sweat them in dance.

I took his hand, led him out onto the circle of space
that appeared in this tiny, hip, American martini lounge
decorated with skinny, pretty, slim-jean wearing women
and attractive men, immaculately groomed, on the hunt.

He shouldn't have known how to lead, spin, hold, move.
In my slight fuzziness, my feet remembered everything
I ever learned at my abuela's parties in the mountains,
the hip sway, fancy footwork, and letting him lead.

I lost all my fear, all my worry, in the swirl
of the merengue beat that my hips know like
the taste of guava and mangoes, like the scent
of salt air, the sound of the wind in the palms.

So sweet, the way he stayed inside my fantasy
for awhile, let me, a stranger, pull him into
my homesick dance, my nostalgia moment,
my guilty pleasure, my escape from

Her eyes are bleary, her smile and mind plastered. Later,
she'll go home to her man, they'll kiss, they'll scream,
and she won't remember calling in the middle of the night.

(c) 2007 understar productions and Rosana Garcia

by Rosana Garcia

2 creamers (amaretto, hazelnut, vanilla--whichever one I hate the least today),
a long pour of sugar, coffee to the top, quick stir. This is what I have time for,
these days--no espresso with milk, no fancy baristas foaming the top, no caramel
or mocha. No slow wake up at the kitchen table. Six-thirty am only means I'm
already running late. My journal lies fatally unopened for days. This is how dreams
die: first, falling into coma, then a slow, painful death, but I'm not planning a funeral
or preparing food for a wake. I'm a miracle worker on a schedule, but I've penciled
myself in for raising the dead. The journal will open, the words will flow (20 pages
of crap, 1 page of startling genius, a permanent ratio, a constant for a writer's
equation). My voice is only quiet, on sabbatical, on a journey who's return will be
heralded with the fantastic places we've been, without me. Somewhere in the deep
parts, a world is being built, characters are birthed, like Athena, fully formed, battle
ready, with convictions and opinions. I buy a bottle of water, a Harvest bar, beef
jerky, for the day and only want to return to the kitchen table, to the laptop
that has only seen work, not words, to the part of me that would never cut corners
or convince me that this shitty excuse for coffee will do. None of this will do.

(c) 2007 understar productions and Rosana Garcia

by Rosana Garcia

You unravel me as your eyes undress me.
You whisper and the breath of it blooms
warmth on my neck, my spine, my skin.
I fight, resist, push you away, but I don't
want you to stop. You tempt me skillfully:
a finger traced secretively on my wrist,
a kiss to the cheek lingering a little long
a lustful gaze, slipping up, down, inward,
a promise of something better, more than I
have ever had. You know my weaknesses,
take advantage of ever yone: your words
are bits of poetry in Spanish, that musical
language of my homeland, you lead me
through a slow salsa dance, your eyes burn
with magical power, movements gracefully
suggesting the smoothness of other, more
intimate movements. You unravel me and
one day I will no longer be able to say no.

(c) 2007 understar productions and Rosana Garcia

See my visual poetry piece for this poem here.