m. pilar cruz
year of the horse
I think I have written this poem
before
I think I have
tried to, but
couldn’t.
Couldn’t
find the words
Couldn’t
unspool the thread
Couldn’t
look the metaphor in the eye—
because what is a metaphor if not
dancing around the subject?
what is a metaphor if not turning away
the beggar
at your feet?
I think I have been writing this poem since I was
born.
Think it’s been with me
since the womb—
since the ruptured egg
the (viscous) lining
the primitive face.
Think the nurses fed it
to my mom.
Think they
drip-fed it
like saline,
placenta waste that never left;
an umbilical cord that never falls,
but winds its way
’round my throat.
I think it’s
day forty.
Think you can
see the eyelids,
feel the joints,
feel the
thick sinewy muscles
start to kick.
I think I have been writing this poem for a long time.
I think the horse is ready to run.
M. Pilar Cruz can be found driving back and forth across the Harbour Bridge, listening to the same five songs on repeat. She’s probably on her way to visit her Mom’s dog.