Wind blows this way: feels like ice
cubes on my skin.
It's like winter in spring.
But that's only my opinion.
For days I've felt this way.
For weeks I've felt so cold.
Sky above is without clouds. I
know the sun is out. The dogs
are chasing their tails and I'm without
sleep...
The sun is bright, but it's
being frozen out. Tails of rats
coil around the alley's dumpsters. The
elegant meals of yesterday discarded:
It is this way I see things these days.
I can taste it
as it comes
into my mouth,
bitter and harsh.
It wants to overthrow me.
But I am no king.
I have no designs
of leading or
being followed.
But this bitter wind
means business.
Rare birds
huddle
with one
another,
sing songs
of strange
origin,
and breathe
fresh air
into the sky.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, 38, was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos (Mexico), and has lived in Los Angeles County since age 7. He works in the mental health field. His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in The American Dissident, The Blue Collar Review, Pemmican Press, and Struggle Magazine. His first book of poems, Raw Materials, is from Pygmy Forest Press.