Tiny houses
and tiny rooms,
chairs too small for dolls,
small beds covered
with dust, shadows,
and spider webs.
The tiny walls
and little portraits
of little sailboats
in the sea smell
of death. Mist
fills the tiny houses
and this tiny world.
A gathering of spirits
wailed. Their grief and
their screams permeated
for hours. Their
flowing tears
and anguish shook the
foundation of tiny houses.
Humbled by its presence,
too lively for the tomb,
the shadows surrender
to its freshness. It
gives death a good poke.
It walks in graveyards and
invites death for a talk.
Life breathes comfortably.
It trembles at the thought
of death taking control.
It gives death a good poke.
All the green
disappeared
Night crept in
silently.
No whistle
to warn you.
It glided
in, voiceless.
In childhood
I feared the
sunlight would
fade away
forever.
I was wrong.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, 41, was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos (Mexico), and has lived in Los Angeles County since age seven. 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. He has two new chapbooks: Before & Well After Midnight from Deadbeat Press and Still Human from Kendra Steiner Editions.