LIGHT FILTERING THROUGH THE GOLDEN BANANA LEAVES
I often push myself past the point of breaking
surging through surf
always needing to be called back from the brink.
Tell me that it’s ok to stop straining.
Swimming is such hungry work.
When I don’t hold the reins in my hands
I feel like a failure.
I think of every place where I ever felt low
wandering aimlessly through a plaza
trapped in the bathroom at Churchill’s
or stuck in my hometown
like a drop of ink diffusing into water
blind as the day is born
which is why I now believe
that the worst pain
comes from standing still.
Take my blood and make it new.
I don’t know why I bear so well
when I never even wanted children.
I think of you in gold
like beads of water clinging to a web
or your rings resting on my nightstand
as we spiral into a kiss.
Mouths parted
I am more myself under you.
Something about being taken care of
has always felt like a trap
where, like a river
I feel everything from you
flowing into me.
Sometimes, when I’m not feeling well
I make sure that my hands don’t rest on my partner.
There is so much contagion already.
I want to go back to joy.
It’s so hard to be let in. To let others in.
I see a bird’s nest tucked away
in the letter C of the Lucky Nail salon sign
and remember all of my troubles with intimacy.
I want to unmoor you
build like a wave
and watch every single one of your lives
—Paris, Brazil, Milan—
your friend craning his neck
to look back at you over his shoulder
with gilded eyes
standing in a water filled doorway
you are living in a past life
and already moving past it
in a city that looks like a warehouse
where your fingers undo the basting stitches on my suit
and teach me the word for hat making.
You wear me well
the way I feel sitting
in front of that Rothko painting
with its layers of rust red and buttery yellow
not wanting to think about how he died.
You tell me about experiential art
van living, try to take a picture
of a car speeding down the road
with a fake tail light made out of cloth
because there is beauty in choosing your resilience.
Fingers stained with tannin
I want them in my mouth
because I crave queer communion
where our bodies are our own
and our stars need not be linear
or near to matter.
Standing outside in the morning
I am moved by the light filtering
through the golden banana leaves
how it holds its own as it travels the air.
Because I only understand service
as an extension of someone else
I reach out for the ghost of you
curled up next to me
and am surprised to find
that I am holding myself.
* * *
WHALE FALL
The other day I learned about whale falls
which is when a whale dies and sinks down
to the ocean floor.
It's an elegant turn of phrase
the way you might say someone is sleeping
rather than dead.
There are times when I feel as if every room I walk into
is a small death
the crushing weight of having to justify why
I should be paid enough or even
treated with some semblance of respect
after letting slip a kindness.
I wipe down the counters in a coffee shop
feeling for the ribs of the whale
its giving carcass.
I feel its pulse, the steady rise and fall.
It could feed a village, if only it cared to.
How did Jonah feel inside the belly of the whale
having been thrown overboard
after refusing to be god’s prophet?
Why do we think that circumstance can force love?
I remember seeing the movie Whale Rider.
How that little girl dug her heels into the whale's sides
so much trust placed in gentleness.
How it carried her deeper and deeper
'til she almost died
bringing her back blue and hospitalized.
Is that what it takes? a small death to change us?
I don't want to turn bitter under this clear sky
because wherever a whale falls
it's supposed to bloom.
I think of how thin the geology of immigrant families is.
How if one layer cracks, the one above it sinks
setting back a generation.
Why is it so hard to channel
the noble beast
I am trying to become?
When a whale falls, its bones
become a reef.
First come the sharks and fish and lobsters
to pick the bones clean
then the bacteria begin fermenting
the marrow for food
dissolving my backbone
melting my sinews
until at last, my great jaw comes unhinged
I offer up my eyes
and open
* * *
MIRACLE OF BECOMING
Sometimes, I forget
that I'm cherished
passed from empty mouth
to empty mouth
I am the message
you have been waiting for
wrapped in the afterthought
of someone else's
leaving.
There is so much
room
to roam.
When I do my kettlebell workouts
to strengthen my arms
and lower back
I forget that I am glass
fios de ouro
fragile like
the semiprecious stone
my mother's friend gave me
her grooved fingers
holding the stone up to the light
the way someone, somewhere
held my face once.
You once called me honorable
and I have been chasing the Sun
of your expectations
ever since.
Swallowing it whole
as snakes do eggs
—light smudging
the corner of my mouth.
I am pure lotus eater.
I want you to reach me.
Plunge into and out of
my depths
reveal the true lady of the lake
(though I always felt more prince
than princess)
water rushing off of me
in sheets.
Mouth open, gasping.
Each layer gone
making me a little lighter
as my feet try to find solid ground.
Good god.
What miracle of Becoming
is this?
Meet the Poet
Luisa Aparisi-França is a queer, non-binary Latinx writer from Miami, FL. Her pronouns are she/they, and she also identifies as a demigirl. Coming from a family that is Spanish and Brazilian, being raised in the US was a huge culture shock to the collectivist values they were taught. As a third culture kid, and someone who, for the most part, slides in and out of confines, Luisa seeks to use language as a way of bridging divides. Her poems explore transitions, transformations, community, deconstruction, family, love, obligation, and the spaces we constantly create with each decision and interaction.Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.