Three Poems

David Joez Villaverde

Poetry

1/9/19

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One holds one or one holds none, however you suss out meaning. There is a lone albatross circling the parking lot. Again I find myself in the kitchen holding my stomach in disgust, ignoring the want echoing up from deep.  Is lust greater than hunger?                                  I don’t want to know. I often find myself saying that all I want is to be seen, to be held, stellated in a pretty mirror, or whatever mirror I can afford. Outside my window oil derricks bob erotically, ceaselessly. There is banging on the walls but I am alone. Closed.

Again the rumble. Never any regard for my sidereal wants. My refrigerator asks for impossible things, to be filled and then shut, like a pelican’s bill, or mitral valve; to have enough energy to burn away the darkness when saying hello. And still I am grumbling from the bedroom, teething cigarettes and spreading the last crumbs on the sheets with palmless hands. Dogs bark at no one, neighbors go unseen, these tireless bellyaches continue. Still I pilot this scow of trash through late capitalism, sallying forth, in search of an antagonist to color my books white, give meaning to my suffering. Am I that different from you? Is it wrong to want enough bread for fingers to tread on? A woman who hits me—writes me missives on stationery crowned with rosettes of blood? Is this too much to ask? All I want is to have enough to want more, more than attendant needs, condiment sandwiches. To not be gulled by the chyrons scrolling across my windows. Again I return to grievance, as if the powers that govern my life ask for justification. Heavy is the gut that eats the crown. All this privilege squandered on a vista of paint boiling on tar. There is much I elide, but I am too hungry, and we are tragically hurtling towards the future. Do any of these seabirds mean anything? Do I? Do you? I don’t want to know. I just want to be held, seen. The tired gull finally descends, alights on a­ lamppost, a sea of asphalt abound. Pumpjacks thrust deep into night. The neon flickers:                                                                                                                  OPEN



∞, Arizona

for Lizzie Seagle 

—like coins of light dancing on the Sabino

in morning bounty, tannin steeped

from weeping blue oak, the dun imbrued

cascades eddying, winding past proud

spires of saguaro, sea of sagebrush, sumac,

sycamore. Today, no bighorn along the

switchback, just carillon of manzanita

cantillating lazily in the dawn. The scent

of creosote singeing off the skin of the

Sonora in ancient song. A whispered truth.

This breath purling, arcing over brittlebrush

and through all. Everything now illumed in this

cantle of heaven; crescent cottonwood, stubborn

cholla, life coursing, swelling through dale.

20 years from now, I will forget the ocotillo,

the Spanish bayonet bordering the trace, I will

only remember windows down in the rental

wind lashing your hair,your eyes—



The Continuum Hypothesis

for Hilary Thornhill Chapman


ℵ⍵

When you told me

one infinity can be greater than another

I didn’t understand that

the living can never apologize to the dead

I didn’t understand that

there are roads we know the ends to

and roads we do not


ℵ₀

When you bought the book


ℵ₁

penned by one of Hemingway’s grandsons intent on turning his name into actionable cash,


ℵ₂

you were thinking of me, you were

thinking of how much I’d enjoy a book

about my favorite authors and their

favorite drinks, only to have me

scream, with papal authority, that

Hunter S. Thompson’s favorite drink

was not Chivas Regal, and that not

only was this an editorial oversight on

their part but a character flaw of yours


ℵ₃

It didn’t hurt that much when you returned the book that I’d never receive and it didn’t hurt that much when you hung up the phone without saying I love you and it didn’t hurt that much when you left me because I knew that I was right and I knew that you loved me and I knew that you would always exist

a breath

a phone call

away


ℵ₀=ℵ₁

Now things are as you wanted,

all of your secrets are your own,

your brother is back in school

& your birthday is still August 2nd

even without you


Walls continue, upright

into joists, out of view

history retains a certain symmetry

when everyone forgets


I never told you

I never told anyone

I lost the books

Kate gave away

at your service

in the back seat of a cab

somewhere in Greenpoint


the infinite is as Kate said

a hole so deep

we don’t know when,

if ever,

we will get out

David Joez Villaverde is a Peruvian American multidisciplinary artist living in Detroit, Michigan. He is the winner of the Black Warrior Review's 2018 poetry contest. His poems in Crab Fat Magazine and L'Éphémère Review are 2018 Best of the Net nominees. He has been recently published in Yemassee, RHINO Poetry, The Indianapolis Review, and Yes Poetry. Visit him at schadenfreudeanslip.com.

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