CORD THE WIND
Letters Home
Cross-section, vibrating, veneer,
of greys in boreal, it calls itself, Dad,
and we’ll mince evening words,
“how are you?”
fell the warm wind — —
found its floorboard in soil,
only fair-trades like ours,
spoils of war,
creeping drywall folds,
this old house should fall;
yet, the hours pass us,
my sweater, hung there,
on unshapely agreement,
so Marxian and legible,
my lonely world flickers,
back to this study of mine,
some couple hours,
North, away.
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Northern, burlapped, streams,
pheromone carried in cursives, Mom,
I make for the allelopathy,
sitting on overburden,
cording twigs into curls,
sooth-sayed by fountains,
your hair falls from trees,
and I’m remembered by home,
trouble closes our distance,
listening– —
or is this muscle memory?
I squinted and saw chaparral in sage-brush,
subliming a solace, so South-Bay,
our stomping grounds,
digging into sharp rocks,
dancing, decay.
The Agave Review (2026)
Poetry In My Own Time, Volume II (2024–2025) coming in 2026 to Lulu.
Original poetry and artwork by Diego Zavala-Morineau (ZAVANEAU 2026)
