A crow chasing a hawk shadow is a reminder of where my fears go before wreaking their necessary havoc. The reflecting pool has swallowed the day and spit out its teeth, some ear lobes. Every breath is shorthand for: surprise, you get another chance to muck things up all over again. Ballerinas are notorious for shitting down gravity's throat on pointe. In the latitudes of sleep clouds are vandalizing the moon. Your life has once more been changed beyond recognition. In this incarnation you're going into a bank wearing a Nixon mask to deliver flowers. Over there you're six and are given a sousaphone to master as a musical instrument. You think it might better serve its function as a birdhouse.
-- José Luis Gutiérrez is a San Francisco-based poet. His work has appeared in Eratio, The Cortland Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Scythe, Margie, Caliban, Poemeleon, DMQ and is forthcoming in Kestrel, among others. He works as an interpreter and translator in the Bay Area. His first book of poems, A World Less Away, was published in 2016 by Pariah Dog Press.