Two Poems by Maya

Alvaro Serrano / Unsplash

words said by a maddened lover
who couldn’t deal with all the
sadness that comes along
with loving me

your arms are sad, she says, 
your legs are sad, yours hips 
are sad. your eyes, of course.
the dirt in your elbows — your
belly-button reeks of sadness;
your sighs are full of despair.
you’re made of melancholy — 
a million glum things collected
to form a person of flesh and
bones. don’t breastfeed your
child, if you ever accidentally
have one, because it won’t be
milk, it will be melancholy. be
kind to your child and never
have one. like your mother 
shouldn’t have had you.

sixty-watt bulbs

the wind of the fan of her room whispers
at all times all the poems she ever wrote.
the poems circle around the room, hitting
the four walls, one after the other; they hit
the almirah, the clock, her paintings, the mirror,
the bed sometimes, and always the light-bulb;
her words have broken a hundred and one
light-bulbs so far. I keep replacing the bulbs;
it’s nice to hear something else than
poetic whispers once in a while, even if
it is the sound of shattering.

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