HARDLY EVER
We sat cross-legged near the lake
where the wind became itself.
Every sort of siren
in the distance.
And the mountains
way, way off
dressed like a flood.
Too many things happen at once,
we say without saying.
We start at the beginning.
A story that never finishes on time.
We are never finished with time.
A month later we are still alive.
It’s raining sideways
on a Wednesday
that shimmers open.
UNNAMED RIVER
By morning I learned
how to listen.
You laughed a Saturday
out of your body.
Tears would come later,
smeared careful
over the contours of your face.
And I’d see the young you
hurt in the hunger of dark
as the season crossed the lake.
We spoke of it
while walking to the river
in the last hour of us.
YOU HAD TO BE THERE
In the early morning
we rise half-lidded on a damp earth.
Our voices soft in
the aqua of our throats.
The clouds bright
in a blizzard swept light.
I’ll never see you again,
the stranger tells us on the train.
We look out the window
until it snows the horizon away.
Then we are in a forest.
The trees bending their wooden torsos.
We are not young.
We never will be again.
BETWEEN SEASONS
The night is the head of a dog
lowering is a collision we watch
from lawn chairs on a spit of grass
at the edge of the lake is a shadow
doubling as a birthmark is the city
at night inside a storm sculpted across
a television is the light letting go between
seasons is music is electricity flooding
the ever after out of us is December
is the January of her face quilted with
kisses is how we dream more than death.
YOU COME TO LIFE AT NIGHT
It is the hour of eager light,
of possibility, though some say
the hour of grief when the gods
of beautiful weather retreat
to their silver caves
and your mind wants
to mother a new language
but mostly looms
in a geography of shame.
Still, you animal the shy streets.
You panic attack the evening,
the air drunk with listening ghosts.
Everyone you know
is a headache away.
An entire city looking
out their windows
howling at whatever
looks like a moon.
MOST NIGHTS
You chase shadows
around an abandoned playground.
Nothing’s recognizable
in the avant-garde of dark.
That’s how darkness works,
you say.
Then you make the sound of a bird
trapped in the mouth of a cat.
It’s not music.
Slowly the cold arrives
and the tall buildings in the distance
begin to glow like rusted out stars.
Your eyes blink bright
in their drinking of the world.
MISTAKES ON PURPOSE
Did you know the shadows
played the part of sadness
in the decade before we met?
And the trees swooned
slow like a secret
between old lovers.
You got better with age
was the mood I was in
that afternoon on the Hudson.
Maybe an emptiness
made out of October
I couldn’t apologize for
or that long drive
into the middle of the state
where all the flags hung like fire.
I remember standing in a room
the color of dropped pennies
holding hands with strangers in masks.
Midnight came and went.
We stood still, together,
part darkness, part sky.
Gabriela De Paz is from the Bay Area and studied art at City College of San Francisco. She enjoys using a variety of mediums including watercolor, collage, and photography. In 2016 she moved to Spain where she has been exhibited in both group and solo shows. She is currently studying ceramics at the Escola d’Art i Superior Cerámica Manises, in Valencia, Spain.
Noah Falck is the author of Exclusions (Tupelo Press, 2020), finalist for the Believer Book Award in Poetry, and You Are In Nearly Every Future (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2017). His poetry appears in the Kenyon Review, Literary Hub, Poetry Daily, and Poets.org. He lives in Buffalo, New York.