Gianna Ward-Vetrano
To watch the old lives blossom
under their saffron skins
is to burn, to bleed, to blush.
It purges the pink.
The sun cracks the eyes;
the street explodes with Spanish;
bomba, baby, bomba.
Eyes close.
Follow the sun earthward
in rhythmic pulse, gushing
breath, and bone, the body's
fragrant guns.
Like ice melting in gardens,
we lie, chewing candied
violets, playing Mother
Earth in dirt.
Behind the mask, sleep
collapsed, dropped its carcass
in consciousness, the last stop
under the skin.
This is who we are.
Blind woman, deaf
man; the soup of souls
all but real.
Copyright (c) 2004 by Gianna Ward-Vetrano
Miss Ward-Vetrano studies with Kristin Kovacic at CAPA,
Pittsburgh Public Schools Creative and Performing Arts
secondary school.