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Ana Caballero


Timing

​Sunday taxi from the airport
          To the house
 
An hour passed amongst
          Children
 
Things set down in a place
          Reserved
 
Electric clouds to yoga
          The intentioned drive
 
A practice repeated endeavored
          Offered
 
          /Over
 
The sushi chef mentions the score because
          I am there
 
Tomorrow he will prepare
          My broth
 
The sky drizzles headlights flaunt
          The rain
 
/Again
 
There are no brief moments that pass
          Us by
​

The Napkin Trick

It’s been done before:

The intention of conversation
starts and ends with a slow walk
around a familiar, short block --
the light purse or empty pocket.

(Tonight
after all
should only call for some cash.)

A set of doors is chosen
but not broached,

and reluctance comes as a reminder

of isolated drinks
where music from cars
(circling the block in search of a parking spot)
is forgotten
on the front and back
of a red paper napkin.

Welcome

It’s not like I don’t
ask nice. Not like
I have more than

one shelf. Every night
I make room, but it
is for one single

plate. And every
afternoon it is I
who sets it down.

Who offers you
or you or you
the chance to give

thanks. To be the
one who makes
another fold his

hands. In my home,
it is you who hosts,
and I am compelled

to be charmed.  Call it
grace. Call it world
talk. Call it an open

heart, straight teeth
that will always
call you back. 

Breakfast Meeting

As an afterthought I can consider the present
Skylines and curved highways
Cliffhangings in real time and real
 
Realtime
 
Consumed while I am young
I lack nothing and want everything
I alone
 
I
Alone
I
 
Lonely please allow me to please
Be
Lonely
 
Let me see the city as colosal and ancient
Let my nights fall silent and sleepless
Into the city’s whole morning call
Silent and sleepless swallowed
So unimportant that only the breath remains
 
I awake
To speak
Back
To speak
 
This is the only way I know

The Feeling of Being Hungover

Sometimes, I get so tired of poetry.
It asks for so much -
makes me feel hungover.
 
Or if I am hungover -
makes me feel dumb
and slow.
 
Like getting on the Freeway
sometimes makes you want
to hit reverse.

Life Things

The writing has left
it rests far away
when it was close
it was closer but not as close
as far when far away

There is still life yes
a baby still new
a father still sick
a master unhere

I watch these life things gather height
the in held breath of avalanche snow
and dragon green of hurricane sea

I tend the wait
so the baby may speak
the father stand
the master glow

I try at times to name the wait
but it is too clear
like a good death

So I wait with the writing
of my son's first word
my father's straight back
my master's raised hand
for the life things
to come close
and tell me their name
Picture


​Ana Caballero's Profile

Go to page 2 of Ana Caballero's poetry

            Baby

You are
A long time
Coming
 
Now
All time is
Your time
 
My time is
Yours since
Before
 
But your
Time is
Not mine
 
It is yours
I get to
Watch it
 
Feel how
You are not
In me
 
But you were
There you
Grew
 
Into a paw
Of blood
And time
 
It felt good
To share
To receive
 
Now I live
To give
You time

Chew You

I’ve always loved left overs
Cold, by the kitchen sink
With dirty fingers and appalled mothers

These, though, I will eat alone
Sitting up
In bed

It was a good, unapologetic lay
The day we tried
To play for good

But, it was really only a day

One good day
Condensed
Into one good chew

And now:

One Strained Swallow
Down the Hollow Drain

Bathroom Talk

Watching you pee in front of me while we talk about not being late
It’s true we shouldn’t be late to things
I try to remember when we began peeing and talking
In front of each other
I wish I could remember
I would tell you
I wish I had to pee
So that I could test you and see if you look
See if you question
Any less
What I am about to say
Which is basically
Everyone already expects us to be late
So maybe we altogether just stopped being late

Sorry Afterthought

No language
When spoken
Suits me
 
I could try to remember more
Read slower
Drink less
 
Practice inserting one word into a daily sentence
Oh! – The conversations
 
New sounds digested on my saturnine tongue
Aardvark
 
Adjurations dropped after the birthday boy asked

Babies on Planes

When I am on a plane,
and I hear a baby begin to cry,
I think: cry, cry, cry.
 
Cry slower and louder.
Cry longer.
 
Cry while your mother walks you around
so that the entire plane can hear you cry.
 
Stop crying; whimper softly.
Make us think you are done,
then bawl.
 
When the flight attendant offers help that is not help
– Can I bring some water?–
answer back with a wail.
 
Shriek.
Howl the flight attendant away.
 
Make your mother give up,
display her shabby grin
and press deep into her seat.
 
Cry right into my ear.
Cry right into the immigration line.
 
Cry right into the wait for the bags
that are not there, and they don’t come, and still
they do not come.
 
Let me hear you screech into the airport curb
and whimper in your car.
 
When you are gone, keep the ringing faint,
but keep it real, keep it long.
 
Scream baby, baby.
 
Rack up my airplane baby miles
for the airplane baby day
when my baby decides to cry.

My Nudity in All Its Forms

Two years ago,
I mistook the apple for a peach:

1. Two cases of imported beers carried six flights of stairs
2. Glasses instead of contacts because I can’t be bothered
3. I make you climb six flights of stairs to drink imported beer
4. I make you have me
5. You have me
6. You buy breakfast
7. You say you had fun
8. I bite down hard
9. Say nothing

​
Go to page 2 of Ana Cabellero's poetry

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