Selected Poems | Natasha Mijares

the dead things on our back

a girl motions with her hand

fisted to mouth to mouth to mouth

she wants to be fed but does not speak

everyone around her translates

the motion and speculates

about her needs

everyone wants

to tell her how to speak

to cross the street with a sense of fear

to cross the street with a pleasure in fear

everyone wants to climb onto dust

it’s like how she is the way she makes

percussive blisterings

my teeth bleed onto gauze

a puss muck

chewed, of bread

the freight train

runs through

stained in heat

and rain of the places

we think we know the freight

tops edged

sharp sparking off rails

cane tops plucked

we spittle

a canopy of white

mesh sweet

to free up a mixture

of lust and dictionary

the field is too tall

standing sun

how we turned

our hands into knives

all our edges

racing sugarcane


Poison dwellers
dazzle control.
The housecoat, the grandbaby
massaged absentmindedly.

The balcony youth

violent, strangely aristocrat.

In the exile hood,

a ghostwriter jukebox
stretches its vocabulary
muscles and says farewell
to the wide-eyed blade.

The first born was snow-scoured,

ungathered in shafts and shanks.

It touched the trouble surfaces,

nails backwards.
The rocky tree arms,
gauzed, heartless.

She said “mint off, Isaaq.”

Heedlessness wave

butchering the

garland of reversal.

The household is

a shimmering cloth.
Lace yellowed,
listening to LaDonna
hemostatic against
the larkspur.

I am a recepteuse

dragging plasticine

tongue across the

flatlands, mimeographed

classifieds lifting the eaves.

The narrow microphone

ashamed, this wilderness
peculiar in its
absolute geography.

Natasha Mijares is an artist, writer, curator, and educator. She has been published in Container, Calamity, Vinyl Poetry, Bear Review, and has work forthcoming from Hypertext Magazine.