I Remember Warmth. {poetry}
I am not feeling particularly prophetic tonight
I do not see anything but normalcies
No, I do not see wildfires raging and people holding hands by burning embers
I do not feel the same type of safety now
Nobody visiting
It’s not that I’m resting, it’s not turning out the lights
It’s not retreat or withdraw
Remember this: mystical beauty will locate you again, but this does not come from looking,
but from remembering
This comes from pockets of hot air in the wintertime
This comes from camping chairs
Wicker and piles of books with hooked typeface, next to lampshades
Soft fabric to cocoon in,
silk fibers a woman’s hair
avenues lined with yellow lights
This comes from handwriting so specific, that the person pours right out of the page, right out of the ink, and you can smell them
Summer becomes Fall and writhes
It’s so gradual, too smooth, rotating without edge
and you need a waft of sensory input to remind you of the necessity of rapidness
To teach you contrast
This comes from the buzzing of cicadas and the mud stuck in between your toes
This comes from your itching legs
and your hands too slow, your knees aching
A furry puppy, distinguished and proud
master of her destiny
collections of hugs, in inclusive style, crisp wine
This comes from steam rising from a saucepan of chili
Rivers running into trees
Centerpieces of rose, melting chocolate
No, I don’t feel anything burning coming out of me,
Nothing but sites in patterned sofas
fuzzy and smeared
Threads clinging tightly
No
This time it will have to come and greet me
This time it has to curl its finger and invite me in,
teach me of the ways in which the world is a home
humble architecture provides a large scope,
muted palettes that demand nothing
I’ve searched enough, I’ve looked
It’s a mother handing her child a coat
It’s cookies cooling on a rack
It’s tempered pressure,
absence of analysis
No,
It’s listening while an uncle tells a story behind his lemonade
It’s somebody reminding you to drive safely
It’s soft guitar sounds floating in another room
Clothing folded, aspected, particular
An arcade of wrapped tortillas
Molded flour rising, falling, glistened glucose
I will rewrite and rewrite and rewrite, I’ll reform it until I am satisfied,
Substance has no choice but to be good enough
So I will rewrite it
I will mold it, shape it, and destroy it
I will then rebuild it
turn it into artifact,
And I will always, always remember it
I don’t really understand poetry, no
Unless there’s entirety, circularity, and illumination
An off beat
Unless I can hear the voice,
Unless there’s some sweetness to which I can attribute a human spirit
Unless there’s cradled attention, consistent and voluntary
unless I can feel the softness
And there’s warmth running in welcoming hands, bronze eyes
There’s a clearing in the bramble, wide, open, exact, and made for you
The warmth is what I remember.
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Victoria Miera is an Art Studio major at the University of New Mexico. She is a photographer and writer, who believes in the importance of art, and the richness that family and friendship bring to culture. You can follow her on Instagram, her writing on Odyssey, and her photography on Tumblr.
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