Selected Passages
July 11, 2026
Scorpions For the mothers (2026)
Scorpions For the mothers (2026)
There are presences within my home that at first alarmed me. Presences that, feeling threatened, I wanted to eliminate. Beings traditionally purged from homes, seen as uninvited.
Creatures surfacing from within our patchworked household. From within folded fabric, beamed wooden ceilings, gaps where floor and wall converge. Creatures that have existed throughout time. From a beginningless past. Over much of the earth’s surface. From continent to continent. With the exception of the Antarctic.
Creatures surfacing from within our patchworked household. From within folded fabric, beamed wooden ceilings, gaps where floor and wall converge. Creatures that have existed throughout time. From a beginningless past. Over much of the earth’s surface. From continent to continent. With the exception of the Antarctic.
The scorpion’s appearance is ageless. Their integrity relentless. Transcending time. Persevering amidst mass extinctions. A constant amidst constant change.
Mothers birth
live scorplings.
live scorplings.
Carry a myriad of babies
on dark rigid backs
under shielding tails.
on dark rigid backs
under shielding tails.
Stirring slowly.
Stepping wisely.
Translucent offspring
holding tight.
Stepping wisely.
Translucent offspring
holding tight.
So small.
So soft.
So sheltered.
So soft.
So sheltered.
Distant kin
of the black widow
sharing the shadows.
of the black widow
sharing the shadows.
They are not insects as may be expected. But arachnids. Eight legs. No antennae or wings. Four eyes. They converse with rhythmic rasping. Indiscernible echoes, reverberations recalling the dialect of nomadic ancestors. Hushed echoes known as stridulation, produced by rubbing precise body parts, the palps or tail. Ranging from faint clicks to more conspicuous chafing.
We learn to listen. Try to avoid them. They try to avoid us. Not out of lack of respect or even fear. But a silent understanding, understanding it is worthwhile to share our home at an agreed upon distance. It is best for us all. The house is big enough to house us all. Is big enough for discretion. No need to force interaction. Each remaining within our own realms.
When we do meet, we guide the scorpions to a place of safety, in the garden, out of harm’s way. Back to the crack. The shade. We invite them to tread other areas. Areas less intimate. Other than between the sheets of our bed. The sleeves of our robe. The toe of our slipper.
We escort them from the shower floor. The middle of the hallway. A kitchen counter. Perhaps they have simply lost their way. Have forgotten we share a dwelling. Have temporarily overlooked that they prefer their own, prefer their alcoves. Safe from our mundane routes. Our well-worn routines.
When we do meet, we guide the scorpions to a place of safety, in the garden, out of harm’s way. Back to the crack. The shade. We invite them to tread other areas. Areas less intimate. Other than between the sheets of our bed. The sleeves of our robe. The toe of our slipper.
We escort them from the shower floor. The middle of the hallway. A kitchen counter. Perhaps they have simply lost their way. Have forgotten we share a dwelling. Have temporarily overlooked that they prefer their own, prefer their alcoves. Safe from our mundane routes. Our well-worn routines.
We leave the mothers alone. They move tenderly so as not to dislodge the delicate babies from their back. Are unlikely to enter our waiting container willingly.
There is often a moment of uncertainty when encountering the mother scorpion. Her scorplings are numerous, and we can’t help but imagine them as larger beings moving throughout the house.
Ni modo. We accept the consequences, leave the portentous port ajar. Many of these flawless miniatures will not survive their first stages of life. Faced with a myriad of potential mishaps.
There is often a moment of uncertainty when encountering the mother scorpion. Her scorplings are numerous, and we can’t help but imagine them as larger beings moving throughout the house.
Ni modo. We accept the consequences, leave the portentous port ajar. Many of these flawless miniatures will not survive their first stages of life. Faced with a myriad of potential mishaps.
We have been stung by many a scorpion. It never ceases to surprise us. Most often when imagined far from sources of discomfort or alarm. Or we simply forget.
There are various strains of scorpions. The sting of those dwelling with us is not troublingly toxic.
I try to listen to the scorpion sting. To decipher the scorpion message. At times, I believe it is merely meant to wake me. Bring me to the moment. Summoning my attention from distraction.
Summoning much like the small dark wings of the scarlet tanager, beating against our window at dawn. Allowing us to appreciate the brightness of their being.
Often the missive they wish to dispatch with their wings is seemingly less transparent. Intended as an elusive warning. Or perhaps relaying a revelation from our long lamented loved ones. Those who have passed yet continue to be held dear. Their reassurance flowing from unforeseen sources.
Or perhaps they simply seek small insects hovering against the windowpane. Unaware that we are watching. Their mirrored reflection clouding the vision of what lies beyond the glass.
There are various strains of scorpions. The sting of those dwelling with us is not troublingly toxic.
I try to listen to the scorpion sting. To decipher the scorpion message. At times, I believe it is merely meant to wake me. Bring me to the moment. Summoning my attention from distraction.
Summoning much like the small dark wings of the scarlet tanager, beating against our window at dawn. Allowing us to appreciate the brightness of their being.
Often the missive they wish to dispatch with their wings is seemingly less transparent. Intended as an elusive warning. Or perhaps relaying a revelation from our long lamented loved ones. Those who have passed yet continue to be held dear. Their reassurance flowing from unforeseen sources.
Or perhaps they simply seek small insects hovering against the windowpane. Unaware that we are watching. Their mirrored reflection clouding the vision of what lies beyond the glass.
The birds, the scorpions, are witnesses to all that has happened here. The silent chroniclers of our enigmatic dwelling. Only they know. And that is enough. We need not identify all the ambiguities that have led us to this present moment. Simply trust that our sojourn be inclusive. Forever making space for the unexpected guest. Paying it forward.
On one of our trips back to my place of origin, I found a mother scorpion and scorplings in my bag. Hidden within a handkerchief.
Stowaways. Silent migrants or perhaps unfortunate victims of happenstance.
I gave them to the cover beneath tall trees, hesitant to release an unfamiliar species into an unsuspecting setting. In an environment that might have proven hostile. I assume they survived, as survival is built into their pores, their claws, their protective tail. Their armor. They carry their welfare with them.
Stowaways. Silent migrants or perhaps unfortunate victims of happenstance.
I gave them to the cover beneath tall trees, hesitant to release an unfamiliar species into an unsuspecting setting. In an environment that might have proven hostile. I assume they survived, as survival is built into their pores, their claws, their protective tail. Their armor. They carry their welfare with them.
I learn from her. The mother scorpion. I too would eventually raise my offspring far from ease as she has. She teaches me tolerance. A modest ritual of nameless faith. A ringing composure.
I pray
for her safety
amidst strangers.
for her safety
amidst strangers.
In foreign lands
foreign cultures.
foreign cultures.
She, in turn, trusts the evolution of her species ability to adapt.
Relocation
seen
as a tacit quest.
seen
as a tacit quest.
Trust
the underlying anecdote
mustered to renounce
obsolete expectations.
the underlying anecdote
mustered to renounce
obsolete expectations.
Trusting
as one door closes
another unfastens.
as one door closes
another unfastens.
Survival seen as a linking of boundless homecomings.
Homecomings, the heartbeat.
Homecomings, the heartbeat.
A fluid homebase
the legendary name of the game.
the legendary name of the game.
July 5, 2025
Rivers For Spin (2022)
Rivers For Spin (2022)
Rivers define land masses. Separating partnered shores.
As the Nile divides and unites Egypt, the Saint Lawrence separates and merges Turtle Island, the Ganges carves and blends its accommodating cultures, her waters carrying an ancient notion far beyond the colored limits of modern world atlases.
As the Nile divides and unites Egypt, the Saint Lawrence separates and merges Turtle Island, the Ganges carves and blends its accommodating cultures, her waters carrying an ancient notion far beyond the colored limits of modern world atlases.
From the vast glaciers of the Himalayas, the Ganges weaves through northern India, vanishing into the Bay of Bengal. Ganga, both river and goddess. Her water, like all waters, host the power to purify, revealing a route toward redemption.
The flow from glacier covered mountains to sweltering tropics. The flow through geographic borders, man-made borders, over the obstacles of man-made dams. The tenacity of overcoming barriers to serve the people. The equanimity of the river's flow.
The mother river takes care without judgement. Recognizing all those who approach her shores. Wade in her waters. Dividing and subdividing her blessings, her benefits amongst tributaries and tribes.
Both mother and magnet connecting the territory she separates. Attracting the serene and courageous with an understated wisdom. She is the tirtha, Sanskrit for crossing or ford. Stairway or descent. A crossroads between earth and heaven.
Her waters are infused with prayer. A conversation of mutual and muted whispers. Gestures inviting interaction. Blurring the boarders between supplicant and evoked.
A letting go of burdening narratives. Misconceptions. Intolerances.
A letting go of unmanageable grasping. Of disregard.
Acknowledging vulnerability. An essential rawness. Candor.
Watering kernels of mercy.
A letting go of unmanageable grasping. Of disregard.
Acknowledging vulnerability. An essential rawness. Candor.
Watering kernels of mercy.
The horizontal flow as manifestation of a vertical initiation. An archive of both history and prophesy. A recollection of origins. A glimpse into an unspoken fate.
Recognizing her elemental role in their rituals, following the almanac of rites and needs, she receives from the unknown and plays it forward. A mother who nurtures to the point of apparent eradication but manages to carve out the resources she needs to survive, to replant her moveable feast, her portable roots. To replenish seemingly depleted reservoirs. The unseeable escaping our vision but not her wide-ranging insight.
I do not blame
The faces that crowd my shores
Though they take vessels
Of my waters to their home
To their cities.
The faces that crowd my shores
Though they take vessels
Of my waters to their home
To their cities.
Saying their names:
Hardwar, Hrishikesh, Allahabad,
Varanasi, Kanpur, Bhagalpur, Patna.
Hardwar, Hrishikesh, Allahabad,
Varanasi, Kanpur, Bhagalpur, Patna.
Naming the band of rivers that impart my waters:
Gomti, Ramganga, Gandaki,
Ghaghara, Koshi, Burhi Gandak,
Tamsa, Mahananda, Son,
Yamuna, Punpun.
Gomti, Ramganga, Gandaki,
Ghaghara, Koshi, Burhi Gandak,
Tamsa, Mahananda, Son,
Yamuna, Punpun.
My knowing flow migrates south
As the crow flies
As storms blow
At times flooding
At times shallow, slow.
As the crow flies
As storms blow
At times flooding
At times shallow, slow.
Flocks growing
Filling my banks
Timeworn promises travel
Towards a shared horizon
No matter
The impending tempo of cities
The engulfing woes of my congregation.
Filling my banks
Timeworn promises travel
Towards a shared horizon
No matter
The impending tempo of cities
The engulfing woes of my congregation.
No matter the murky moment
I see a luminous future
Not without winding
Obstacles to overcome
But defined by a
Transcending empathy.
I see a luminous future
Not without winding
Obstacles to overcome
But defined by a
Transcending empathy.
A pronounced undertaking
Of budding intentions
Redefining priorities
Regarding my welfare.
Of budding intentions
Redefining priorities
Regarding my welfare.
Recognizing a need
A timely assertion
A surfacing premonition.
A timely assertion
A surfacing premonition.
Ganga welcomes both breathing creatures and blowing ashes, allows ambiguities to merge. Her waters deemed pure no matter the waste pulsed into her arteries.
She faces many threats. Human and industrial pollutants surge as population swells. Water demands for agriculture multiply. Climate change diminishes glacial ice in the Himalayas. All straining Ganga’s water levels.
Yet her chronicle evolves. Her fluent verses have been heard.
The Ganges River has become the first non-human entity in India to be granted the same legal rights as people. A court in the northern Indian state of Uttarakhand granted her and her main tributary, the Yamuna, the status of living human entities within a broadening cosmic hierarchy.
Oh
but Ganga is so much more.
but Ganga is so much more.
A resilient architype
Dissolving the myth,
Removing barriers
Of separation.
Dissolving the myth,
Removing barriers
Of separation.
Make no mistake, Ganga does not need the laws or governing structures that have been put in place. They are earnestly intended for those who inhabit her shore. To remind them of their place in the preordained order of the natural world. To remind them to respect life on life’s terms. To tactfully interact with a greater scheme of community. What has always been and will ever be. If let be.
Artwork: Tzintzun Aguilar Izzo
June 27, 2026
The Scarf For Matthias (2025)
The Scarf For Matthias (2025)
Like a warm wind or kind word, the scarf laced through her life.
Maria arrived one cool summer, in a cloudy city defined by divisions. The Berlin wall and the inescapable weight of history.
She was visiting from tempestuous lands, in need of shelter. Granted temporary sanctuary. Till storms passed. Till she found her footing.
She was invited north, welcomed by those she barely knew. They wrapped the woolen scarf around her. Protecting her chest and shoulders. Comforting her restless head.
It was a grey scarf
knit of fine yarn.
As big as a blanket
as warm as need be.
She was visiting from tempestuous lands, in need of shelter. Granted temporary sanctuary. Till storms passed. Till she found her footing.
She was invited north, welcomed by those she barely knew. They wrapped the woolen scarf around her. Protecting her chest and shoulders. Comforting her restless head.
It was a grey scarf
knit of fine yarn.
As big as a blanket
as warm as need be.
Ria crafted the scarf for Maria. She entwined what she deemed essential. A subtle courage. Curiosity. Compassion. A rekindling recovery.
She showed Maria the city. They wandered through parks of ponds and grey herons. Weeping willows over still waters. Branches whispering. Barely brushing the surface.
They touched the wall that spoke of one people divided but not vanquished. They visited the other side. Silent as they walked streets that at first appeared frozen in time. Then finding a rhythm foreign but not frozen. Revealing an understated and struggling presence.
Ria took Maria to the sea. A coast of grass roofs and evening bond fires. They walked the morning shore. Cold wind lifting them. Warm scarf uniting them. Shared across shoulders. Held tight to their bodies.
Ria and Maria. Unlikely twins wrapped in a soft pocket of protection. Mindful of a simmering fondness. As if they had known each other forever.
She showed Maria the city. They wandered through parks of ponds and grey herons. Weeping willows over still waters. Branches whispering. Barely brushing the surface.
They touched the wall that spoke of one people divided but not vanquished. They visited the other side. Silent as they walked streets that at first appeared frozen in time. Then finding a rhythm foreign but not frozen. Revealing an understated and struggling presence.
Ria took Maria to the sea. A coast of grass roofs and evening bond fires. They walked the morning shore. Cold wind lifting them. Warm scarf uniting them. Shared across shoulders. Held tight to their bodies.
Ria and Maria. Unlikely twins wrapped in a soft pocket of protection. Mindful of a simmering fondness. As if they had known each other forever.
The visit ended.
Maria’s journey continued, then came to rest in a land very different yet akin to Berlin, branded with an imposing wall, a wall offset by vibrant villages and resilient peoples.
The scarf was witness to subtle and not so subtle changes in her life.
Wrapping babies to her chest, soaked with traces of the day.
Serving as a pillow, a blanket. Sheltering growing bodies as they slumber, take on new forms. Evolving as they evolve.
Shrouding intimate relics in deep drawers, personal keepsakes hidden under socks and undershirts.
On occasion, secretly tucked into a packed suitcase. Sealed with a deep-seated wish the scarf would eventually return with the wanderer. A wish that the scarf would follow a woven energy, navigating the stars. An energy guiding the fledgling explorer back to the nest. Heart steeped in newfound wisdom.
Maria’s journey continued, then came to rest in a land very different yet akin to Berlin, branded with an imposing wall, a wall offset by vibrant villages and resilient peoples.
The scarf was witness to subtle and not so subtle changes in her life.
Wrapping babies to her chest, soaked with traces of the day.
Serving as a pillow, a blanket. Sheltering growing bodies as they slumber, take on new forms. Evolving as they evolve.
Shrouding intimate relics in deep drawers, personal keepsakes hidden under socks and undershirts.
On occasion, secretly tucked into a packed suitcase. Sealed with a deep-seated wish the scarf would eventually return with the wanderer. A wish that the scarf would follow a woven energy, navigating the stars. An energy guiding the fledgling explorer back to the nest. Heart steeped in newfound wisdom.
The scarf continued to accompany her as she journeyed to visit her adult children. Kept in her bag as a source of strength, the courage to encounter whatever crosses her path.
Out of the blue of her settled life, already slowed by age, an opportunity arises. An opportunity to revisit Berlin.
Several years earlier, Ria had slipped past the veil, a veil where she sees us, but we no longer are able to see her. We simply sense her presence.
Ria’s husband greets Maria, Maria’s husband, their son, as they walk the same streets of a no longer divided Berlin. Following the park’s path in a soft spring rain. A heron takes flight. The willows weep in recognition.
Maria shows the worn scarf to him. Places it into his cupped hands. He senses a distant echo, hears a soft voice. Reminding him of that cool summer, decades ago when they helped Maria find solace. Lifted her to her feet.
Several years earlier, Ria had slipped past the veil, a veil where she sees us, but we no longer are able to see her. We simply sense her presence.
Ria’s husband greets Maria, Maria’s husband, their son, as they walk the same streets of a no longer divided Berlin. Following the park’s path in a soft spring rain. A heron takes flight. The willows weep in recognition.
Maria shows the worn scarf to him. Places it into his cupped hands. He senses a distant echo, hears a soft voice. Reminding him of that cool summer, decades ago when they helped Maria find solace. Lifted her to her feet.
They are moved as he speaks of Ria’s last year and their time together. As he describes the flowers he has planted on her grave. That he continues to care for. He speaks of their child, now grown. Living in another city.
Their reunion is serene, surrounded by the humming of the city. They savor each other’s company. Fall into an effortlessness, a well-being, as they weave into the future from a shared past.
Their reunion is serene, surrounded by the humming of the city. They savor each other’s company. Fall into an effortlessness, a well-being, as they weave into the future from a shared past.
It happened one grey Berlin evening.
Rain is falling. An unexpected wind ruffles the trees. Tangles the clothes of pedestrians. Threatens umbrellas.
Maria and her husband rush to the theater. They are late and not sure where they are going. With the change of weather, the city’s appearance shifts, is no longer familiar. They have lost their bearings.
They follow street signs, scan the intersections searching for clues, searching for the tram stop where they had once been, thinking they found it, only to be mistaken, then needing to retrace their steps in a web of rain, of wind, in a web of uncertainty.
They find the tram. Rush in and sit down. But something is amiss.
He looks at her. She looks at him. The scarf. The scarf is gone. Taken by an unexpected change of weather. The confusion of the evening.
Little is said. The scarf has returned to an unstated origin. Returned home. A home not their home. Their hands are empty. Their hearts, torn.
Rain is falling. An unexpected wind ruffles the trees. Tangles the clothes of pedestrians. Threatens umbrellas.
Maria and her husband rush to the theater. They are late and not sure where they are going. With the change of weather, the city’s appearance shifts, is no longer familiar. They have lost their bearings.
They follow street signs, scan the intersections searching for clues, searching for the tram stop where they had once been, thinking they found it, only to be mistaken, then needing to retrace their steps in a web of rain, of wind, in a web of uncertainty.
They find the tram. Rush in and sit down. But something is amiss.
He looks at her. She looks at him. The scarf. The scarf is gone. Taken by an unexpected change of weather. The confusion of the evening.
Little is said. The scarf has returned to an unstated origin. Returned home. A home not their home. Their hands are empty. Their hearts, torn.
Returning from the theater, they gather a group to search under the rain. There is no sign of the scarf. The streets are shiny from the evening storm. The sidewalk is empty. Everything glistens grey as they search the grey scarf.
Half a block from home, they spy a shadow on the pavement ahead. There lies the scarf, like a small creature. Asleep on the wet sidewalk. Soaked by rain. Seeping up concrete origins. Heart still beating.
In a state of disbelief. Maria lifts the scarf, holds it to her face. Grateful for a simple twist of fate. When something, someone thought lost, reappears. As a reminder. A reminder of a timeless bond.
She wraps the damp scarf around damp shoulders. The scarf, still breathing, smells of the street, becomes her. She recognizes her history in the dark fabric. Fabric speaking the language of shelter. Falling walls. The faint taste of marzipan. The faint echo of a child’s voice.
A history tinged with a premonition
of paths yet to be taken
paved with a modest potential.
of paths yet to be taken
paved with a modest potential.
A hand offered
extending across
a sea of possibilities.
extending across
a sea of possibilities.
June 18, 2026
Underground For New York City (2024)
Underground For New York City (2024)
An impromptu waltz lulls asleep when least expected. Bodies sway, then come to rest. Sway, then come to rest.
In the midst of chance encounters, surrounded by alien elements, drowsiness invades as if to dull the edges of incongruence. Of persistent vigilance. Of overwhelming loneliness amongst others. The other.
The unrehearsed rhythm of train over tracks welcoming random groupings of disparate elements. Slumber the common denominator of diversity.
In the midst of chance encounters, surrounded by alien elements, drowsiness invades as if to dull the edges of incongruence. Of persistent vigilance. Of overwhelming loneliness amongst others. The other.
The unrehearsed rhythm of train over tracks welcoming random groupings of disparate elements. Slumber the common denominator of diversity.
Stairs lead to the subway. Stairs absorbing layers of passing. Layers of implicit lessons. Layers of history that no one else has witnessed with the same weight. With the same degree of responsibility.
Someone imagined metal stair surfaces. Imagining they would last centuries. Imagining the future. They never imagined what would happen when storms threatened. When rain and snow laced shoes. When steps became wet with a vengeance and challenged unaware commuters. What happens to an eager crowd when each potential passenger treads with slow determination to avoid a precarious fall.
They never imagined the frustration. The danger. Until faced with the facts, the repercussions, of their unintended miscalculations.
The stair surface was eventually revisited. Another layer added. Not a complete resurfacing but a superficial remedy, a minor adjustment. Quite rustic in its effectiveness. Irregular lines were welded, seem to rise from imperfect depths. Like improvised insect trails. Like archaic tracks in dirt or sand, creating texture. Creating traction.
Nobody questioned the awkward aesthetic. Nobody complained regarding the imperfection of its application. They simply appreciated the convenience and the intention of the powers that be. Who recognized a need and resolved a dilemma.
Though some passengers, out of distraction or anxiety, continued to fall.
Someone imagined metal stair surfaces. Imagining they would last centuries. Imagining the future. They never imagined what would happen when storms threatened. When rain and snow laced shoes. When steps became wet with a vengeance and challenged unaware commuters. What happens to an eager crowd when each potential passenger treads with slow determination to avoid a precarious fall.
They never imagined the frustration. The danger. Until faced with the facts, the repercussions, of their unintended miscalculations.
The stair surface was eventually revisited. Another layer added. Not a complete resurfacing but a superficial remedy, a minor adjustment. Quite rustic in its effectiveness. Irregular lines were welded, seem to rise from imperfect depths. Like improvised insect trails. Like archaic tracks in dirt or sand, creating texture. Creating traction.
Nobody questioned the awkward aesthetic. Nobody complained regarding the imperfection of its application. They simply appreciated the convenience and the intention of the powers that be. Who recognized a need and resolved a dilemma.
Though some passengers, out of distraction or anxiety, continued to fall.
underground adjective /ŭn′dər-ground″/
1 : Situated, occurring, or operating below the surface
1 : Situated, occurring, or operating below the surface
The boy and his mother enter the subway station. Blocks from their home. She follows behind. Noticing his current height. His altered gait. His unlaced sneakers.
He doesn’t look back. Knows she’s there. Hears her breathing. Takes note of her slight limp. Uneven stride.
They are together but distant. They share the same dark eyes, long neck. Strong hands. Hers holding her purse tight. His holding his basketball with an air of protective nonchalance.
Though he walks ahead, she spins the world for him. Though they rarely speak, he knows it.
He doesn’t look back. Knows she’s there. Hears her breathing. Takes note of her slight limp. Uneven stride.
They are together but distant. They share the same dark eyes, long neck. Strong hands. Hers holding her purse tight. His holding his basketball with an air of protective nonchalance.
Though he walks ahead, she spins the world for him. Though they rarely speak, he knows it.
underground adjective /ŭn′dər-ground″/
2 : Hidden or concealed
2 : Hidden or concealed
She sits with an empty seat on either side. He stands before her. Keeping his balance. Staring straight ahead. Their feet almost touching.
She falls asleep. Hands folded over her purse in her lap.
He sways. Though exhausted, he is alert. Aware she sleeps. Aware of her vulnerability. As the train enters dark tunnels.
The windows flash black. Reflect his continence. He watches his flickering image. Raises his basketball to his chest as if completing a portrait. Completing the set of who he is. Who he dreams of becoming.
His day shifts dimension. Shifts to dreaming. Daydreaming as the ball takes on life. Autonomous. Animated within the frame of the window.
Spinning. Flying high into an imagined hoop. Rebounding. One ball separating into an arch of distinct balls. Each brighter than the next. In an illuminated climax of precision. Then quickly restrained as the train pulls into a brightly lit station. Screen gone.
He feels the weight in his hands, against extended fingertips, as something treasured. He is comforted by the momentary reverie that lightens a day thought burdensome. A day dreaded. Thick with the unknown. When all he wants to do is know. To prepare. To be prepared.
Grateful for a moment of grace, of unexpected sparkle. When a familiar object rebels. Becomes the unintended actor on an improvised stage often ignored. An undefined incentive to reconsider the day’s perspective.
Accompanied by the soft dreams of his slumbering mother in unforeseen dialogue. All without risk. As he never relinquishes his initial consciousness or caring intentions. His intentions to guard her. Remain guarded.
She falls asleep. Hands folded over her purse in her lap.
He sways. Though exhausted, he is alert. Aware she sleeps. Aware of her vulnerability. As the train enters dark tunnels.
The windows flash black. Reflect his continence. He watches his flickering image. Raises his basketball to his chest as if completing a portrait. Completing the set of who he is. Who he dreams of becoming.
His day shifts dimension. Shifts to dreaming. Daydreaming as the ball takes on life. Autonomous. Animated within the frame of the window.
Spinning. Flying high into an imagined hoop. Rebounding. One ball separating into an arch of distinct balls. Each brighter than the next. In an illuminated climax of precision. Then quickly restrained as the train pulls into a brightly lit station. Screen gone.
He feels the weight in his hands, against extended fingertips, as something treasured. He is comforted by the momentary reverie that lightens a day thought burdensome. A day dreaded. Thick with the unknown. When all he wants to do is know. To prepare. To be prepared.
Grateful for a moment of grace, of unexpected sparkle. When a familiar object rebels. Becomes the unintended actor on an improvised stage often ignored. An undefined incentive to reconsider the day’s perspective.
Accompanied by the soft dreams of his slumbering mother in unforeseen dialogue. All without risk. As he never relinquishes his initial consciousness or caring intentions. His intentions to guard her. Remain guarded.
underground noun /ŭn′dər-ground″/
3 : a subterranean space or channel
4 : an underground city railway system
3 : a subterranean space or channel
4 : an underground city railway system
The initial construction of the current New York City subways started in March of 1900 and lasted over four years. While they were building, there were ditches everywhere. They would dig into streets, into avenues. Leaving enormous trenches, left uncovered. Many died, workers and passersby. Even more were injured.
They opened the first lines in October 1904. With twenty-eight stations, running for nine miles, all under Manhattan.
The first trains ran local and express from City Hall station to 145th Street along tracks still used, crossing from east to west at 42nd Street. A second section, running to 145th Street and Lenox Avenue, opened in April, extending eventually to Bronx Park.
Within the next few years, the subway continued expanding. The Broadway line reached Van Cortlandt Park and South Ferry. The first underground line to Brooklyn opened in January 1908. Over five thousand people attempted to ride the subway that day alone. It was immediately obvious that the existing structure could not yet meet the growing demands of the city’s commuting population.
They opened the first lines in October 1904. With twenty-eight stations, running for nine miles, all under Manhattan.
The first trains ran local and express from City Hall station to 145th Street along tracks still used, crossing from east to west at 42nd Street. A second section, running to 145th Street and Lenox Avenue, opened in April, extending eventually to Bronx Park.
Within the next few years, the subway continued expanding. The Broadway line reached Van Cortlandt Park and South Ferry. The first underground line to Brooklyn opened in January 1908. Over five thousand people attempted to ride the subway that day alone. It was immediately obvious that the existing structure could not yet meet the growing demands of the city’s commuting population.
When possible, the boy prefers to walk the length of the platform. Toward one extreme of the waiting area. Toward the operator’s compartment.
The crowd thins as he walks, until he is one of the few passengers remaining. He is familiar with the distinctive traits of each station. Random benches. Obscure entrances and exits.
The operator leans out the window. A window labeled like all cars, with large cabin numbers. A flag. As if a reminder. Amidst a symphony of languages. Amidst a network of diversity.
The boy has always been fascinated by the operators. The way they keep the train moving. From point A to point B. Even when surrounded by complications. Confusion. Aiding bewildered passengers when possible. Pushing buttons. Pulling brakes. Gradually. On a good day.
In their rules and rituals, he senses order. Relaxes knowing someone is in control.
The crowd thins as he walks, until he is one of the few passengers remaining. He is familiar with the distinctive traits of each station. Random benches. Obscure entrances and exits.
The operator leans out the window. A window labeled like all cars, with large cabin numbers. A flag. As if a reminder. Amidst a symphony of languages. Amidst a network of diversity.
The boy has always been fascinated by the operators. The way they keep the train moving. From point A to point B. Even when surrounded by complications. Confusion. Aiding bewildered passengers when possible. Pushing buttons. Pulling brakes. Gradually. On a good day.
In their rules and rituals, he senses order. Relaxes knowing someone is in control.
Rumors have it that a 16-year-old took an unsanctioned ride. Conducting an A train for over three hours. After studying MTA manuals on subway train operations for three months. No matter. No one was harmed.
Stand clear of the closing doors.
Doors close announced. Lessening the feared tenacity of their imagined grip. The operators reassuring voice live. Not recorded.
Heedful head out the window. Aware. Aware of the movement. The migration from platform to subway car.
Doors close announced. Lessening the feared tenacity of their imagined grip. The operators reassuring voice live. Not recorded.
Heedful head out the window. Aware. Aware of the movement. The migration from platform to subway car.
underground noun /ŭn′dər-ground″/
5 : The perfect place for rebellious acts
5 : The perfect place for rebellious acts
Doors close. The window darkens, reflections resurface. His face altered. As if his uncle’s. As if another.
He catches glimpses of an unknown neighborhood. Or perhaps it is his neighborhood years ago. More brick. Less glass. Gold lettering on store windows. Less cars. More people. Linden trees lining the sidewalk, leaves shading the street. Casting a marbled light.
The face in the reflection is thinner. Hair swept away from lined forehead.
Eyes thoughtful. Open wide yet inward as if envisioning what is not readily evident. Then suddenly attentive.
The boy’s basketball recovers its unbounded skill. Bouncing briskly down the busy block. Rolling between oblivious pedestrians. Through the legs of running children. Across traffic. Seemingly unseen.
No one but the boy and his other witness its bizarre behavior. The ball’s unexpected defiance awakening them from distractions.
They grin. Their synchronized response bonding them. Drawing them together within the same dominion. No matter the ambiguities. Unsolved analogies.
No longer alone. No safety net needed. No point but the present.
The boy shakes his head. Holds his hand to his pulsing chest. Drops the ball. His mother stirs.
He catches glimpses of an unknown neighborhood. Or perhaps it is his neighborhood years ago. More brick. Less glass. Gold lettering on store windows. Less cars. More people. Linden trees lining the sidewalk, leaves shading the street. Casting a marbled light.
The face in the reflection is thinner. Hair swept away from lined forehead.
Eyes thoughtful. Open wide yet inward as if envisioning what is not readily evident. Then suddenly attentive.
The boy’s basketball recovers its unbounded skill. Bouncing briskly down the busy block. Rolling between oblivious pedestrians. Through the legs of running children. Across traffic. Seemingly unseen.
No one but the boy and his other witness its bizarre behavior. The ball’s unexpected defiance awakening them from distractions.
They grin. Their synchronized response bonding them. Drawing them together within the same dominion. No matter the ambiguities. Unsolved analogies.
No longer alone. No safety net needed. No point but the present.
The boy shakes his head. Holds his hand to his pulsing chest. Drops the ball. His mother stirs.
underground noun /ŭn′dər-ground″/
6 : Where roots spread enabling growth
6 : Where roots spread enabling growth
The ball rolls to his mother’s feet. She opens her eyes. Raises them to the boy’s face.
She describes her dream. A dream that takes her back to islands. Long ago. The flux of the subway rocking her boat.
Every day her brother ties her to the bow. Fearful of losing her to willful waves. Thick cord around her waist. Plastic tarp stretched over the boat’s structure. Over their heads. To block the blistering sun.
He teaches her to fish. To maneuver the line wrapped around tight fists. Guiding it between extended toes. Foot resting on the boat’s rim.
Some days, they take tourists to fish with them. Their small rowboat has a clear plastic floor. They watch fish swim underneath. Some days, lit by filtering sunlight. Some days, dim as if warning of bad weather.
The fish are bright colors. Bright as the planets the boy studies in his school books. Bright colors with clear patterns. Striped and spotted. Some colors blending like a cast prism on a smooth surface.
Within the underwater community, they recognize the predators. The prey. Casting doubt on their own enigmatic role. In the order of things.
In her dream, the fish are blooming like flowers. Rootless. Blossoms adrift. A cloudless sky above. A wonder of beings below.
Something tugs their bait. They collect the line cautiously. Lift the catch out of the silvery blue. Raising a small body over the side, into the boat.
She describes her dream. A dream that takes her back to islands. Long ago. The flux of the subway rocking her boat.
Every day her brother ties her to the bow. Fearful of losing her to willful waves. Thick cord around her waist. Plastic tarp stretched over the boat’s structure. Over their heads. To block the blistering sun.
He teaches her to fish. To maneuver the line wrapped around tight fists. Guiding it between extended toes. Foot resting on the boat’s rim.
Some days, they take tourists to fish with them. Their small rowboat has a clear plastic floor. They watch fish swim underneath. Some days, lit by filtering sunlight. Some days, dim as if warning of bad weather.
The fish are bright colors. Bright as the planets the boy studies in his school books. Bright colors with clear patterns. Striped and spotted. Some colors blending like a cast prism on a smooth surface.
Within the underwater community, they recognize the predators. The prey. Casting doubt on their own enigmatic role. In the order of things.
In her dream, the fish are blooming like flowers. Rootless. Blossoms adrift. A cloudless sky above. A wonder of beings below.
Something tugs their bait. They collect the line cautiously. Lift the catch out of the silvery blue. Raising a small body over the side, into the boat.
Delicate feet draped with sea weed
Starfish hands
Tender crest crowned in petals
Eyes vivid as the moon
Her son’s weightless laughter filling the afternoon air.
Starfish hands
Tender crest crowned in petals
Eyes vivid as the moon
Her son’s weightless laughter filling the afternoon air.
The brother rows quickly to shore, the baby in her arms. They dance barefoot along the beach’s edge. Lightly rolling waves reaching their knees. Dancing without concern. Without a rope. Sun slowly descending till dusk draws them home.
His mother picks up the basketball and lays it gently beside her. Against her thigh.
One hand on her purse. The other, rocking the ball slowly.
The train slowly comes to a stop. Their stop. The day’s destination.
The boy pulls his heavy hood over his head, pulls long sleeves over his hands. Takes the ball under his arm. Never missing a beat. Though his laces be untied.
Doors open. Summer steams from the platform. They walk toward the exit.
He climbs. Two stairs at a time. Then waits. She gingerly joins him. They step together.
She suddenly senses someone close behind her. Perhaps just a premonition. Glancing backward, she stumbles. Falling forward.
The boy quickly catches her. His arm hooked beneath hers. Lifting her. Till her feet regain their balance.
He notices she is missing an earring. Looks down at the stairs. Surveys the dark passage below.
She gestures him forward, whispering
No importa, my son. Someone will find it.
One hand on her purse. The other, rocking the ball slowly.
The train slowly comes to a stop. Their stop. The day’s destination.
The boy pulls his heavy hood over his head, pulls long sleeves over his hands. Takes the ball under his arm. Never missing a beat. Though his laces be untied.
Doors open. Summer steams from the platform. They walk toward the exit.
He climbs. Two stairs at a time. Then waits. She gingerly joins him. They step together.
She suddenly senses someone close behind her. Perhaps just a premonition. Glancing backward, she stumbles. Falling forward.
The boy quickly catches her. His arm hooked beneath hers. Lifting her. Till her feet regain their balance.
He notices she is missing an earring. Looks down at the stairs. Surveys the dark passage below.
She gestures him forward, whispering
No importa, my son. Someone will find it.
June 5, 2026
Water Lily For Paula (2020)
Water Lily For Paula (2020)
Take the atlas from the shelf. Open to the world map. Watch the stain spread.
An invasion unfolds. Countries absorb the crisis. One by one.
Whether it be perverted politics or erratic disease. The contagion is seemingly impossible to eradicate. Though the roots be superficial, at times untrustworthy, the interwoven network proves resolute. Impossible to tame.
The discoloration threatens to saturate life as we know it. Altering our collective vision. Drawing the tablecloth from beneath our carefully set table. Upsetting a hard-won notion of our future.
So much at stake. When basic tenants of benevolence and empathy are on the line.
An invasion unfolds. Countries absorb the crisis. One by one.
Whether it be perverted politics or erratic disease. The contagion is seemingly impossible to eradicate. Though the roots be superficial, at times untrustworthy, the interwoven network proves resolute. Impossible to tame.
The discoloration threatens to saturate life as we know it. Altering our collective vision. Drawing the tablecloth from beneath our carefully set table. Upsetting a hard-won notion of our future.
So much at stake. When basic tenants of benevolence and empathy are on the line.
Months past. Alone. Her eyes begin to stray beyond protective blinders to witness the irrefutable needs and despair surfacing in her fragile community.
Her once meticulous knitting grows irregular. Counted stitches slipping unnoticed from needles. Lost. Coarse twigs tangling her nurtured yarn.
The repercussion of a surfacing and sinister alternative take hold. She can no longer deny it. Her once pacific shores within reach of the pervading calamity.
She has found her edge.
She comes to recognize that her former peace of mind was simply an illusion. To recognize the warnings resurfacing throughout her lifetime. Overlooked sightings of sharks at bay. Lingering beneath her well-conceived rhapsody. At long last emerging from the deep.
Her once meticulous knitting grows irregular. Counted stitches slipping unnoticed from needles. Lost. Coarse twigs tangling her nurtured yarn.
The repercussion of a surfacing and sinister alternative take hold. She can no longer deny it. Her once pacific shores within reach of the pervading calamity.
She has found her edge.
She comes to recognize that her former peace of mind was simply an illusion. To recognize the warnings resurfacing throughout her lifetime. Overlooked sightings of sharks at bay. Lingering beneath her well-conceived rhapsody. At long last emerging from the deep.
She considers her patchwork of property from the window. Leaves her knitting to rest. Turns off the radio.
Taking her straw hat from the hook, she leaves the teapot to boil. Closes the door behind her. Walks into the wind.
Slipping past the sheep, she follows the hill down to the brook. Almost dry from lack of rain. Just small pools of wet earth. Traces of birds and other creatures imprinted across its surface.
She removes her hat and sandals. Skirt and blouse.
Lies across the damp tracks. Feeling the moist mud across her back. Mud soaking through her hair. Welcoming her heals as they sink. Slightly.
Taking her straw hat from the hook, she leaves the teapot to boil. Closes the door behind her. Walks into the wind.
Slipping past the sheep, she follows the hill down to the brook. Almost dry from lack of rain. Just small pools of wet earth. Traces of birds and other creatures imprinted across its surface.
She removes her hat and sandals. Skirt and blouse.
Lies across the damp tracks. Feeling the moist mud across her back. Mud soaking through her hair. Welcoming her heals as they sink. Slightly.
Days pass. Breathing becomes difficult. The rains begin.
She struggles to lift herself to no avail.
She closes her eyes. No longer feels her fingers. Attempts to define life forces around her.
A bird resting on her chest. A snake exploring her knees. Calves. Grass growing around her head.
She feels herself blooming in the morning. Acknowledging the warmth of the sun. Softening. Opening.
Then closing in the evening. As the last light drops behind hushed trees. Sheltered from nightfall.
At first, she resists. Challenges the wet soil. Only later to become it.
Some days her sheep visit her. She feels their curious noses buried under her arms. Beneath her chin. Their warm bodies lying beside her.
She struggles to lift herself to no avail.
She closes her eyes. No longer feels her fingers. Attempts to define life forces around her.
A bird resting on her chest. A snake exploring her knees. Calves. Grass growing around her head.
She feels herself blooming in the morning. Acknowledging the warmth of the sun. Softening. Opening.
Then closing in the evening. As the last light drops behind hushed trees. Sheltered from nightfall.
At first, she resists. Challenges the wet soil. Only later to become it.
Some days her sheep visit her. She feels their curious noses buried under her arms. Beneath her chin. Their warm bodies lying beside her.
Depictions of the water lily can be traced back to the tombs of ancient Egypt.
Symbolizing Upper Egypt. Accompanying the papyrus flower, emblem of Lower Egypt.
The lotus as inviolable. Representing a cohesive country. The sun. Restoration.
Yet the flower reigns alone in its simplicity.
In no need of a graphic or historic narration.
The flower of the seventh month. The lotus speaks July’s truths. Born from mud. Never seeking to expose esteemed origins. Simply endeavoring to reveal hidden resources of wet earth and astounding potential.
Opening to dawn.
Closing to dusk.
Symbolizing Upper Egypt. Accompanying the papyrus flower, emblem of Lower Egypt.
The lotus as inviolable. Representing a cohesive country. The sun. Restoration.
Yet the flower reigns alone in its simplicity.
In no need of a graphic or historic narration.
The flower of the seventh month. The lotus speaks July’s truths. Born from mud. Never seeking to expose esteemed origins. Simply endeavoring to reveal hidden resources of wet earth and astounding potential.
Opening to dawn.
Closing to dusk.
An affirmation of endurance
A peaceful reckoning
The water lily
Afloat amidst the wreckage.
A peaceful reckoning
The water lily
Afloat amidst the wreckage.
Twisting the message toward hope
No matter
The indiscreet desires
Of despotism and disease.
No matter
The indiscreet desires
Of despotism and disease.
Steadfast amidst pandemonium.
May 25, 2026
Streams For Tzintzun and Blake (2022)
Streams For Tzintzun and Blake (2022)
A cavern lies deep in the hollow of a mountainside. The home and sanctuary of lazy Sleep. Where sun beams never reach. At morn, noon or early eve. Though cloudy vapors rise in doubtful twilight.
There, Silence dwells. From beneath the rock, the lazy stream of Forgetfulness lulls to sleep. With a whisper. Over pebbly shallows.
Before the cavern's mouth, lush poppies grow with profuse herbs. Dewy Night distills from those tender essences a drowsy infusion. Then sprinkles Sleep across the darkening domain.
The stream reluctantly leaves behind the grotto shades. Shifting and spilling beneath the tenuous glow of constellations. Emulating scenarios. Precedents. Consequences.
There, Silence dwells. From beneath the rock, the lazy stream of Forgetfulness lulls to sleep. With a whisper. Over pebbly shallows.
Before the cavern's mouth, lush poppies grow with profuse herbs. Dewy Night distills from those tender essences a drowsy infusion. Then sprinkles Sleep across the darkening domain.
The stream reluctantly leaves behind the grotto shades. Shifting and spilling beneath the tenuous glow of constellations. Emulating scenarios. Precedents. Consequences.
At times, just a trickle. A remembrance of a system that connects all systems. A system that reminds the discoverer of what is essential. What was there before and will be thereafter. Perhaps just a trickle but a smaller sibling of an undeniable force.
Rivers branch. Divide. Subdivide into a keepsake of its source.
Just a hint.
Yet possessing the power to interrupt History. The stream of Forgetfulness hinders the stream of Ideas. Erases it, as Water is mightier than Thoughts.
Rivers branch. Divide. Subdivide into a keepsake of its source.
Just a hint.
Yet possessing the power to interrupt History. The stream of Forgetfulness hinders the stream of Ideas. Erases it, as Water is mightier than Thoughts.
For some, this purging prompts the loss of what is most precious. For others, it proves to be a saving grace.
Artwork: Tzintzun Aguilar Izzo
May 17, 2026
Layers For Isaura and Juan R. (2024)
Layers For Isaura and Juan R. (2024)
I
A September serpent slips through summer grass grown tall after the rains. Snake sheltered. Taking pleasure in privacy.
Dew glistening across scales. A soft slip of sound accompanies a subtle pursuit.
No one to notice but a dawn premonition. Cloaked in ambiguity.
Dew glistening across scales. A soft slip of sound accompanies a subtle pursuit.
No one to notice but a dawn premonition. Cloaked in ambiguity.
Rain on a tin roof. Random patterns remnants from the night showers. A blessing in September after a late rainy season. As if a promise. A promise as remedy for foreboding. Foreboding predictions of drought and its consequences.
Drops singing of a silent fall through silver skies. Drops singing of a silent solidarity. Drops no longer dreading sudden contact with their surroundings. No longer dreading the tin roof, spiny cactus, dusty earth that receives them.
They come as messengers to those who listen. Those who recognize redemption amidst turmoil. Softening the impact of the inevitable.
Bells disrupt stillness. Tolls rippling into village alcoves. Into shadowy homes, empty kitchens, peopled beds. Awakening deep slumber. Interrupting morning reveries.
Birds scatter across a dim skyline. Dogs howl from secluded hillsides. Offering a sustained counterpart to the incessant ringing.
A sole figure tugs the bell’s cord, silhouetted against the subtle dawn. Head filled with resonance. Then stillness.
Since the darkest hours, roosters crow. Disoriented by the moon. Their declarations gone astray, echoing against closed curtains. Against dormant minds still soaked in sleep.
A recurring message lost then found once nighttime ebbs and morning flows.
Rise and shine. Unlatch rusted doors. Light slumbering stoves. Warm café con leche. Reheat yesterday’s pan dulces on the stained comal.
Step through the portal. A plaza of possibilities.
A recurring message lost then found once nighttime ebbs and morning flows.
Rise and shine. Unlatch rusted doors. Light slumbering stoves. Warm café con leche. Reheat yesterday’s pan dulces on the stained comal.
Step through the portal. A plaza of possibilities.
Swallows cut then mend the first light. Slicing the grey sky into sections then abandoning it to wholeness. No ripples. No fragments. As if nothing had come to pass.
Returning to rest in nests of mud. Of hay. Only to dart to hanging electrical lines. To perch on phone cables. To observe the emerging horizon.
Mist marks the transition of water, rising after nocturnal showers.
The tenuous transition from night to day. When spirits silently prepare the stage without recognition.
Fragile transitions blending what once was believed to be essentially separate. But is instead a loop of continuity. A shared scheme. Unspoken mission.
Fragile transitions blending what once was believed to be essentially separate. But is instead a loop of continuity. A shared scheme. Unspoken mission.
Wrapped in a wool blanket, she walks through the mist. Over hidden garden snakes. To the pulse of falling rain.
The roosters’ crows diminish. The bells roll to a stop. The swallows cease to circle.
She stands against a stone wall, catching the sun’s first rays. Letting the blanket fall to the ground. Letting the blanket soak in the cool puddles at her feet.
The roosters’ crows diminish. The bells roll to a stop. The swallows cease to circle.
She stands against a stone wall, catching the sun’s first rays. Letting the blanket fall to the ground. Letting the blanket soak in the cool puddles at her feet.
II
Mice scatter within apartment walls. Finding a hole in sheet rock. A privileged route left by previous mouse generations. Finding safe haven in the closet. Within the soft lining of a wool coat.
Within the slow unraveling of sweaters. Scraps of cardboard boxes. Unearthed feather trimmings. Remnants reclaimed. Creating a collage of a nest.
A home within a home. Welcoming small creatures finding their way in a concrete kingdom. No stars to guide them.
Within the slow unraveling of sweaters. Scraps of cardboard boxes. Unearthed feather trimmings. Remnants reclaimed. Creating a collage of a nest.
A home within a home. Welcoming small creatures finding their way in a concrete kingdom. No stars to guide them.
Snow falls. Keeps falling.
Ephemeral footpaths lace city streets. Uncharted migrations producing indiscriminate patterns. Then vanishing under new layers of snow.
Snow will become water. Water, ice.
Each transition filling the city with misty halos. Halos crowning street lamps as the city exhales bravely into the beyond.
Ephemeral footpaths lace city streets. Uncharted migrations producing indiscriminate patterns. Then vanishing under new layers of snow.
Snow will become water. Water, ice.
Each transition filling the city with misty halos. Halos crowning street lamps as the city exhales bravely into the beyond.
Traffic lights. A tacit exchange.
No one to listen. Streets as witness. Reflecting a yellow warning changing to a red command. A stern voice diluted by a lack of attention. Provoked by an absence.
Random pedestrians dart across mid-street. Defying mandates to walk. Don’t walk.
Traffic signals losing what little authority, what little leverage left to them. As the night reigns rebellious.
No one to listen. Streets as witness. Reflecting a yellow warning changing to a red command. A stern voice diluted by a lack of attention. Provoked by an absence.
Random pedestrians dart across mid-street. Defying mandates to walk. Don’t walk.
Traffic signals losing what little authority, what little leverage left to them. As the night reigns rebellious.
Day breaks over a silhouetted skyline. Night slipping between the cracks.
Bells toll a low beckoning. Rhythmic in its recognition of the hour. Followed by an echoing shadow, slightly deadened. Dissonant.
Pigeons take flight. Startled by the sudden rupture of stillness. Scattering in all directions from tree tops. Roof tops. Seeking refuge in shattered silence.
Bells toll a low beckoning. Rhythmic in its recognition of the hour. Followed by an echoing shadow, slightly deadened. Dissonant.
Pigeons take flight. Startled by the sudden rupture of stillness. Scattering in all directions from tree tops. Roof tops. Seeking refuge in shattered silence.
Without sanction, the neighbor’s brewing coffee sets off a pervasive alarm. As if the walls were porous, coffee is experienced covertly.
Traces of others dominating the delicate morning.
Traces of others dominating the delicate morning.
Her eyes open. Disoriented. Certain constants confuse her. The subtle mist. The warmth of her bed. Bells then coffee. Premonitions then reticence.
Certain differences divide her. Echoing footsteps on the hall stairs. Punctuated by doors slamming. Car horns. Sirens.
Certain differences divide her. Echoing footsteps on the hall stairs. Punctuated by doors slamming. Car horns. Sirens.
She slips onto the fire escape. Stepping carefully over potted plants. Stands against the brick wall to catch the day’s first rays.
She closes her eyes. Lets the blanket fall.
She closes her eyes. Lets the blanket fall.
May 8, 2026
Noon For Sigfrido (2021)
Noon For Sigfrido (2021)
The cows are taken to pasture. Feed off what they find depending on the season. From fresh to dried grass. From wild brush to cactus. No matter the thorns.
The land is peaceful. Their pace is unhurried. Accompanied by the slender rustle of lizards darting out of the way of hard hooves. The patient chewing of the herd.
The brother adjusts his straw hat to the angle of the sun’s rays. Guides the cows to appropriate pastures. Depending on the month. Depending on the weather.
The days extend as if eternal. Pulse barely discernible.
The noon sun brings a stillness to the quotidian pastoral. When interactions pause. Suspended. When birds abandon their songs. When the past slips from the shadows and makes an extraordinary and sudden appearance.
An apparition dances beneath the intense white light. Whispering the saga of previous herds and their people.
Whispers of resistance. Of the fervent history of these hills. The fight to reclaim the land. To salvage independence.
Recognizing the struggles of a population. Original people of a fertile homeland in need of safeguarding.
The vision exits as it entered. Silent. Beneath the midday heat. Unnoticed.
The cows continue their meanderings.
The brother. His reveries.
The cows continue their meanderings.
The brother. His reveries.
May 2, 2026
Mélange For my home (2026)
Mélange For my home (2026)
In our closets and cupboards hide the belongings of others.
We honor their presence and leave them space. Because we have space. Because they are all part of our unwavering saga. Reminding us of what we tend to forget. Dispelling the fiction that we travel alone.
Whether we have met these inhabitants, whether they have passed or were simply passing through, we acknowledge them as archetypal steppingstones. Acknowledge each rite of reputed passage.
There are clothes decades old belonging to former students. Or former partners. Pots and pans from former homeowners. A cracked cup on a cupboard shelf. Twisted teaspoons in a kitchen drawer. Evolving relics of untold strangers. In the rippling wake of loss, visitors and various visitations.
At times we shake each out and try them on. Make use of them to see if they can be of use. They are often too tight. Often fragile. Or the veneer is peeling, a button broken. A seam split.
No matter. There is always some purpose for them. A cradle for an animal friend. A nest for a seedling. The inspiration for a creative venture. Inviting innovation.
We save the shards of pottery. Fragments of what were once practical now decorate our walls and floors. Define stairs. We save them with a sense of nostalgia. With fondness. They ring a bell, strike a chord. Recall long-ago moments that embodied our kitchen. Shared our tender meals. Their renovations welcoming future generations. Shepherding evolving seasons.
The fractured lip of a mug
the curved rim of a plate
the lone handle of a jug
telltale slivers that narrate.
the curved rim of a plate
the lone handle of a jug
telltale slivers that narrate.
The potential of the proverbial pie
the random parts of a rococo whole
the consonance of the composite.
the random parts of a rococo whole
the consonance of the composite.
April 25, 2026
Heat For my youngest (2023)
Heat For my youngest (2023)
The heat distorts vision. Weighs steps. Weighs awareness. Triggers a mind-numbing fading of desires and composures. A slow burn consuming a wick of wistfulness.
Colors fade. Sounds fuse. An invisible yet formidable obstacle tackles our senses. Knocks us to our knees.
We lie on tiled floors. Cheek pressed against the cool surface. Ear seeking a whisper of escape. Palms spread seeking a brief pardon from what is beyond our control. Seeking momentary mercy. Our breath slowing to a faint beat as we wade through the afternoon toward evening.
The sereno de la noche skirts over the desert and raps at the window. Invites us to leave our cover in the shuddered rooms of our shelter.
Swallows dive into open spaces. Cactus flowers greet the humidity of the air’s sudden stirring. Distant mountain horizon tinted an unfathomable red.
Suddenly, the lifting sinks. The reprieve evaporates. The heat resumes. Repercussions pulsing through our being. Summoning hallucinations.
All day we fight off a sleepy listlessness. Come night fall we fight to fall asleep. Eyes wide open. Surrendering to uncertainties.
April 18, 2026
The Gatekeeper For my eldest on their birthday (2022)
The Gatekeeper For my eldest on their birthday (2022)
The Sargasso Sea’s deep blue waves crest gold as the sun sinks.
A shimmer defines the tide as it slips over the horizon.
So many. Too many to identify in their singularity, just a shimmer of a mission, a promise of return.
A shimmer defines the tide as it slips over the horizon.
So many. Too many to identify in their singularity, just a shimmer of a mission, a promise of return.
The young eels are known as elvers, mesmerizing movement defining them. Movement is what they are made of.
After their eggs hatch, the leaf-like larvae simply drift, coasting in and out of months, riding the currents for nearly a year. They surf tides, are propelled toward rivers and estuaries. Sanctuaries.
These tiny eels, Anguilla Rostrata, are paradoxically known as freshwater eels. They will travel thousands of miles over the ocean to reach freshwater, then hundreds more. The only catadromous fish of these parts, of Turtle Island, they adapt to freshwater, eventually to return homeward, to saltwater, to spawn within native tides, the enigmatic waters of the Sargasso Sea.
Summer slips over the horizon with them, eels slipping into fall, acknowledging limitations of the equinox. To everything there is a season, the need for a steadfast salutation. The waves roll the eels back and forth, making little progress yet never looking back.
The equinox is careful to keep balance, gather then disperse, walk the tightrope of demarcation. Celebration. Allowing the waters to merge into an undeniable duality, nothing static or fixed, a sinking then lifting, letting go of accumulated light. Surrendering to a prophecy of early darkness invading fall and winter evenings.
To those born near the Equinox, there is little to do but recognize this duality, the incongruity of their day, the mix of mindfulness and mindlessness, the sweet in the sour. Deafening silences. Sweet sorrow. Holy war. Wise fools.
They are those dwelling along the dotted line defining change, welcoming the unknown, the fleeting and impermanent, as if family.
Such is the Gatekeeper, caught in the middle of division.
The Gatekeeper of the freshwaters
welcoming the morphing eels
as they evolve
leaving saltwater behind.
welcoming the morphing eels
as they evolve
leaving saltwater behind.
As the larvae approach fresh water, they transform into glass eels. Still transparent, they have matured to two to three inches, developed fins and a serpentine shape. They seek freshwater, at times covering brief stretches on land, pursuing lakes and ponds.
The gatekeeper counts the eels as they pass, as if a myriad of stars, as if grains of sand, an arduous task to order infinity, to keep count of the unmanageable.
Witnessing and taking note, recording changes of hue. Dimension. Observing how some brave land to escape through the forest.
Honoring the uncertain, relaxing in the unknown, there is so much the Gatekeeper doesn’t understand about these enigmatic guests. They welcome, nonetheless, honoring ambiguity.
Walking along the riverbank, over rocks and trunks, following the eels in their migration, the gatekeeper watches as they become duskier, darker elvers. They shed their transparency, are easier to define beneath the floating leaves and increasingly shallow waters as the season dries, the rains a dream of the past.
The Gatekeeper gains in height and strength, in a certain wisdom, after witnessing the perseverance of the young eels. Their quest. The strength in numbers. Imagines being part of the pack, part of the miraculous of their shared mission. Imagines their companionship as real, as kin, an achievable narrative.
Unable to keep up, to maintain the pace of the eels’ pressing migration inland, the gatekeeper waves a final recognition.
Yet after many passings of the moon, after many circular seasons, they return, swimming toward the sea. The gatekeeper reverses the gate to open outward, rejoices in their transformation. Now silver, well over a foot long.
The gatekeeper bends over the reflective surface of the water, is caught transfigured. Greyer hair. Calmer demeanor. Deeper breath. Smoother skin.
Bending even closer to the water’s resemblance, the gatekeeper inadvertently slips from the bank, from his well-acquainted home, slips into the still waters.
Caught in the meandering current of the eels, soothed by their smoothness, comforted by the cool waters, no longer able to escape the truth of impermanence, the gatekeeper relaxes, chooses to go with the flow, to surrender, to accept uncertainty as a challenge.
The eels cover chest and legs, encircle arms, polish the awkward land elements into streamline gills and fluid tail.
Movement redefines the gatekeeper.
Movement is what they are made of.
The Gatekeeper casts aside prior undertakings, a mission to archive only to then become the object of observation, a mission to shed the task and become the inspiration, the source, a kernel of mystery, free of surveillance, summoning trust in the open weave of the natural order of things, no matter the miles traveled, the metamorphosis.
The eels rush toward the Sargasso Sea to spawn in recognizable water, home as they know home to be.
They journey a great distance seaward undergoing revolutionary transformations. They stop eating, digestive organs diminishing. Their eyes double in size, become more sensitive to the blue transparency of the calm Sargasso waters, a sea untethered, with no defining shore.
Each fall equinox, land beckons, attracting the weary traveler. For a fleeting moment, the gatekeeper becomes the guardian once more, taking respite on an island shore in celebration of origins. Gills barely visible.
Artwork: Tzintzun Aguilar Izzo