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Postcard
 

Monique Sanchez

It’s too hot for May.

 

Or maybe I forgot

what it was like

to stand here.

 

Instead I erased from memory

the heat, the flies,

the ghosts,

and decay.

 

Instead

 

I only remember the blue

and the mountains

papering the horizon.

Per Annum
 

Monique Sanchez

The aridness, comforting

blankets me

 

My hands shield my eyes

from sunlight made

more punishing by absence

 

Everything is dead

Our small square of grass

rattles in its dryness

 

The aster, aborted

a mercy granted by God

powders under my heel

 

The egg in the coop is empty

but for a scarlet film

 

I walk inside the riverbed

my steps throwing glittering sand

 

Taproots brush my ankles,

their brown limbs reaching out

as if asking for a gift

 

Here I am again

wanting

Pastoral, Muted
 

Monique Sanchez

Everything ice

Everything ethereal

Everything oil

 

slick black & bleeding

out from glacier

A hi|s|tory

written in the waterline

 

Tell me—

 

What burns in the boreal?

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