Sunday, March 18, 2012

Erika Moya


there was a death
there always is         
& a boy with nothing in his pockets           
like he needed her
soft skin of grapefruit
a minute & it's just your face        
& she can't remember the words          
wave a hand
and she moves closer
move it twice
and one is tied down to a cell
imagine pieces
still inside you        
homing pigeons     half-consumed things
the sweet smell of garbage
women dressed like beach-side catalogues
aqua     coral     tamarind  
you can never forget this    
blue and un-fuckable moment
the real of the yellow
with its hooks all in

Erika Moya's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in forklift, OhioSpork Press, & elimae among other places. She co-curates the Stain of Poetry reading series in the Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn where she resides.