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


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


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.


victoriamieraVictoria 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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