Alone

Lentamente

L e n t a m e n t e

L-e-n-t-a-m-e-n-t-e

Va naciendo

Va creciendo

como un árbol

esta medio vivo

hasta que rápidamente

vea el olor de sus ojos

ha visto nacer el fuego

al conocerla a ella, a ella

len-ta-men-te

si no, se va a dormir solo,

sin vida.

•••

Slowly

S l o w l y

S-l-o-w-l-y

it is being born

it will grow

like a tree

it is half alive

until quickly

it sees the smell of her eyes

until you meet her, her

you would not see

the fire been born

slow-ly

if not, you go to sleep alone,

lifeless.

Serum

 

Photo by Joelle Santos @azuquita.prieta

 

Amo el tiempo, porque a pesar de ser lento como un suero en hospital público en Santo Domingo, lo arregla todo si se tiene paciencia.

Y mi estructuras favoritas son las arrugas
Y no hay cosas más linda que alguien
que no le tiene miedo a las canas
Y quién engendra paciencia en los costados
es èl (el tiempo), que se asfixia de esta
gente
y lo endulza todo
y la paciencia se sienta a deleitar.
I love the time, because despite being as slow as a public hospital in Santo Domingo, it fixes everything if you have patience.

And my favorite structures are wrinkles
And the cutest thing is someone
that is not afraid of grey hair
And who begets patience on the sides
It is him (the time), who falls in love with
these people
and sweetens all
and patience sits to feel delight.

—F.P. @Mujerconvoz_poetry

Poem X

(This poem was co-written with a talented Dominican writer)

The flames of the axes from Earth are stationed in his eyebrows.
He kisses with his feet the unconscious mind.
I’ve seem him in the foam of the wind, naked as a hurricane.
He is one, inside of millions of thoughts.
The mirror is his age without
a flesh tissue from an orgasm with an expiration date. I want to hug him…
unnamed in the tentative curves of his existence.
Him — unreachable and fleeting, without a body and a breath from the universe.
One who lives in a jail inside the abdomen of the horizon.
He would be the intense desire
until he stops being what he will never be.

— F.P. @mujerconvozpoetry

And perhaps it never will be.
But in his attempt, he has given me everything that can be given.
Torrents of stroking caress down the
backbone of the Galaxy.
Illusions of having his sight embodied
in my horizon, and let the sea foam alone embrace our bodies.
Merge into one.
And wake up in the gusting arms of the wind,
which encompasses with the rapidly beating of our beats.
While the crystal clear reflection of his eyes shows me the infinite tortuous
pleasure that lurks in the womb of desire.
He — volatile as the wind, faceless
name among millions of thoughts.
Meanwhile,he offers me the world
without being.
And maybe, it will never be.

— D.C.M.F. @dcmf3

Photo by Oliver Gonzalez-Santos