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  November 2015
volume 12 number 2
-table of contents-
 
  home   (archived)
 
  featured poets
  paulo brito
  Don Kingfisher Campbell
  Michael Aaron Casares
  Emily Fernandez
  John Jay Flicker
  E.L. Freifeld
  John Grey
  Christopher Mulrooney
  Kushal Poddar
  Jan Steckel
  Wanda Vanhoy Smith
 
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Emily Fernandez November 2015
   

 

bio


photo by richard lee miller

    Emily Fernandez lives in the community of El Sereno. She received her MA in literature from New York University and teaches English at the college level. Her poems have been published in ROPES, The Heartbreak Anthology, The Edgar Allan Poet Journal #2, The ZZyZx Writerz Anthology, Verse-Virtual, The San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, and EAT/ATE.

   

 

At Forty

A canyon between my eyes,
a valley, deepened and lengthened,
from back when I was seven

chicken-pocked, polka-dotted.
Sores covered my body,
on eyelids, inside my nose,
between my toes,
down my throat and
in my ears.

Breathless, blind and mute,
I slept for days
amid hallucinations
and fevered sweat.

One morning I stood like St. Sebastian
before my mother's camera
draped in a sheet, pixeled with blood
because we were in a place where pity
made us laugh the laughter
that always come last,
straight from the belly, absurdly
and hot with tears.

Then I healed, and a small pockmark
like a dry lake stayed between my brow,
and in my thirties it grew.
Deforming, informed with worry,
and the never spoken sorry,
the anticipation that fell
into the gulf of wakeful nights
and the squint from sunlit days,
until it became like a trench
where two brows converge:
the subduction of love and loss.

Now, in the mirror, pulling the skin
on my forehead tight and then releasing
the crease to its permanent fold,
I try to imagine out of humor,
or pity, that the pock is now a canyon,
that I should stand at the edge of
with binoculars
and take in with hot tears

like a tourist
before a world, cracked,
and full of wonder.

copyright 2015 Emily Fernandez

   

 

The Ex: A Novel

Usually I go about my day
just fine.

Then, I freeze
mid-step, remembering
how I abandoned you

mid-sentence, no denouement:
the catharsis of completion.

It's not like I didn't give ten years,
fill up every cell in my brain,
my soul, with the heavy of you:
your voice, your rhyme,
the scenes and times compacted
between the punctuation.

My blood mixed in the words,
(There were moments of ecstasy,
weren't there?)

We forced ourselves into structures,
both of us changing the other,
rearranging our plots and passions
to meet a dream halfway.

We got close.
(Maybe you were further
than my eyes would let me see.)

Maybe...

But it was that last part
where I had to make you

complete,

burn you down to perfection

that I finally lost
the heart (my art!)

and rashly pushed delete.

copyright 2015 Emily Fernandez