The Breakfast Monologues

Blue, Red, Cream, and Silver

Sensation cut into slivers
Mingling at the tip of a spoon.
I lick my lips and my taste buds quiver

Maddened by that handsome bliss
That triggers the most rapturous tune.
The trick, I hear, is to take it bite by bite.

Sunday mornings I sit out in the canopy
Tonguing my berries and cream, sipping
On a tequila sunrise. Sometimes I dream

That days like this could go on
And on, and on
And I’d never have to let you go.

***

Sunday Morning

For you, my love? I feel nothing else but a childish grin, believing that each time he bugs me, he’s just trying to catch a little spark. Only the best for you, he remarks, as he swindles me and leaves me to go downstairs. He knew just what I wanted. A coffee cup with sugar and cream. A little breakfast, not as little as it seems.
Light beams scatter through the windows and the hands of little green babies that have been subletting the windowsill for weeks now. It’s no surprise that they make me forget that one day they’ll be traveling far away. Right now they sit stoically among the dust that scatters towards me. And they tell me, I will always be there when you wake.

***

The Cheesy Egg Affair

I

My eyelids, soft but swollen
With hours or rest and reverie,
Little breaths and broken soliloquies
Of tender love and tepid lips.

A body pressed against me
Strong arms encasing me in a citadel
Of solitude that I wish never to leave.
It’s hard to believe how bright we are
When ignited by a film of darkness.

Try as I might, I can never deceive the obvious,
That we all have to get up sometime.

II

Each morning he opens the door
Basking me in light
Warm as a body emerging from slumber.

He plucks me from my bed, always tender
Towards my cracks. Holding me in his hands,
I know I will always be safe.

But suddenly he turns, he breaks me
In two and I, like a fool
Pour out all my insides, only to see them
Sizzle before me. An oozing mess of a life.

His love was hot, but my ignorance
Even hotter…and my only wish
Is to feel that gentle touch
Circle around me once more.

***

“No breakfast, thank you. I’ll just have a coffee.”

You told me, once, about the importance of breakfast
How well eggs go on toast
And cream into coffee
Making swirls topple into pictures
Of the most brilliant daydream.

I laughed, because I had not eaten breakfast
In years, or a full meal in days.

In some ways its the best to remember—
The long afternoons of idleness
The two ‘o’ clock breakfast
With me taking little bites daintily
And you licking the jam from your chin
But tell me, how does one begin to forget?

You told me, several times,
How great things taste in excess
And how some things taste better in mouthfuls
Than in delicate bites.

Try as I might, I only wanted moments of sensation
My taste buds singing, then relaxing back into calmness.
My heartbeat contesting the normal limits of vivacity.
It’s clear to me, that my modesty could never be enough.

Now you’re gone
And I don’t know if I want to eat at all.
Breakfast is no longer a beginning
But a hefty reminder of our end.
So tell me, my most vexatious friend,
How does one begin to forget?

***

Tequila Sunrise

I realize, now, that everyone lies
That in a moment, we all
Could lose everything. Even the cries
That keep us weeping eventually soften.

It’s not often we feel so deeply
And so neatly we usually dismiss
Until finally, my weakness, and that vanished kiss
Reminds me that it was once okay to weep.

Before sleep became the enemy
I adored bedtime, and sought it longingly.
Funny, how that which we love most
Turns into that which hurts most dearly.

That boy of mine thinks coffee divine, appeases me
With juice, cheesy eggs, and the fruits of his love.
He makes my heart hunger. I wonder, I used to say,
If life can really be this simple.

Several days after I lost you, I suckled
A tequila sunrise. Got the nerve to finally realize
That I never really had you, after all.

Miss You

Music and Lyrics by Virginia Valenzuela. All rights reserved.
***
I had your heart in pieces of stone.
I had your hand, but it’s not mine to hold.

Lost our way, these days I am so cold.
Wish you’d stay, but it’s me who remains…

You found me withered and worn.
Living free, but wishing for more.

Be my love, I’ll be your clear, blue sky.
It’s not right, still I fight, but you’ll never come inside…

What’s it like? I may never know.

Keep me here. I’m never gonna run and hide.
I won’t miss you…

Luna de Sombra

Green, enchanting green,
How I long for you to appear
How I long for you to pick me up
And empty me of my tears.

Green, such loving green,
How I desire to feel your pain
How I desire to wash it over me
So I’d forget what I can’t explain.

*

Two sisters sit
On the roof of the moon
One crying tenaciously
One petting the Loon.

And the one sways unsteadily
And the other dives endlessly—
Neither knows just how easy
Life can be when one learns to let go.

“Bitte, meine Schwester, let me
Give you both my hands
Let me carry your burdens to the shore
And bury your tears in sand.”

*

Green, my healing green,
How I wish for you to bind me
To wrap my woes in tightened bounds
To seep into the blood that blinds me.

Green, with clarity, green,
How I hoped to uncover the sky
But found no glimpse of sunlight
But found no hope in her eye.

*

The Loon dives out of the sister’s arms
Disappears into the Mother’s eye
She winks, and the roof shakes tenderly
Shakes the sisters back into the sky.

The first falls down to the earth
And cracks her jaw on the open cliffs
The other, made entirely of shadows
Scatters among the rifts.

*

Green, everlasting green!
Can’t you free me from this house of jade?
Can’t you point me toward the anxious trail
Whose directions are pointedly made?

Green, such loving green!
How I desire to feel your pain
How I desire to wash it over me
So I’d forget what I can’t explain.

Published in Otterbein University’s Kate: a Feminist ‘Zine 2015 Issue

The Humble Gentleman

TheHumbleGentleman

FullSizeRenderA gentleman, smooth, and sultry like earnest winds; his melody swivels: volcanic and flexible. He opens his mouth only to thaw. Banned at the peach pit, molding himself to fit into humble tunnels that shudder in the daylight. His little man…he lassoed the sun. Left us to listen…until all the trumpets were gone. Waiting, waiting. Wishing, fading. Praying for that amber groove to resurface. A ragged slope coos, as an uneven piano scatters above the sky. Mixing winsomely, a drink, gated by white ice and black straws. The gentleman offers you his smile.