MY CELESTIAL BODY

He always said that if he could give me
the moon, he’d go for the stars. I couldn’t
figure out if it was something about the white
specks of nothing, about their color, temperature,
or luminosity, that made me feel like the sky
was actually not far at all.

I took that knowledge, on a Tuesday afternoon,
to the pair of eyes above me, begging to be
told that, for once, I had a reason to feel
distant from my favorite smell in my favorite
clothes. And there she was, softly spoken, at last,
to say maybe, just maybe, your wide-eyed gaze,
to others, appeared to be small.

From then on I said yes, sorry, and go on.
Tell me all about how the stars remind you of us.

REM

I pick up the phone solely to give
lessons on how love ought to be. Cruel
voices chase you more often when you’re sleep
deprived; they might also hold you down, pull you,
sit on top of you, and slap you until you’re fully aware.

When I wake up, if I could
slap back, there’s a place where I would
grasp that I’m still vigorously drowning
in the face and hands of my very own glass coffin.
I hope that when they bury me they don’t leave me lying

on my stomach. That makes the euphoric human
mind more prone to imagining yet another shiny creature.
Episodes only last from seconds to an eternity when you can’t
remember to stay calm and try to yell your way out of it.
Don’t yell; they’ll cover your mouth, you idiot.

FATHER OF US

Delusion and sorrow mean nothing
to the bitter, tangible soul that was
told, before she knew to contemplate
morality, that there was something wrong
with trying to be as feminine as water.

He told me my words hurt him, and his
were to be taken lightly. He said he was
ambiguous and I was secretive, hoping that
would force me to admit how much I hated
his habitual frame of mind. Yet he left: one time

for three full moons and one time for three
short prayers. He got me used to only loving him
when the shade of his body was not physically there.
I obeyed, hoping to bury disappointment
deep as the kindest form of me.

FOR MY FRIENDS AND THE GOD(S) THEY BELIEVE IN

When our feet ache, when it is all forgotten,
we will still want to be particular
in his eyes. When we look at the moon,
do we know what we’re trying to find?

Violet, blue, and green, who, with an alternate
description, could add up to a thick, rich red.
Will we reach the bottom of the ocean?
The contrast between what we want and what,
at this point, would even be feasible.
The time to make a decision.
One conscious moment when morality interludes
with the right way to love.

We adore talking about the future
when we’re able to lie about it.
We wish we knew where we’ll be
on our final night alive.

Regina Laredo Hurtado is a Mexican poet who grew up embracing change in different Latin American countries. Her work centers around themes of faith, love, and death. In addition to writing, Regina enjoys making music and reading.