I see the poem when I dream
—after the painting by Octavio Quintanilla
in my
waking life my hands feel white fur soft and warm how do i say its musk is the scent of turquoise with an edge of burnt copper all of my memories rinsed in acid was it fury or was it tenderness all the burning
i hear
tiny huizache blooms falling in a sideways blizzard of xylophones have i ever tasted anything that wasn’t music on my tongue that wasn’t arpeggios or broken chords spiraling inside my body
what is
a body this shifting thing this impermanent thing this dark shining thing this dying living thing that dances when it breathes this fire thing that thunders even when it’s still that runs when it should tremble
is the
body more real when it pushes against another body or is it more real when beginning and ending lose all meaning i drove once through a cloud at dawn drove on a white caliche road and the world was pink and without dimension
my eyes
tasted spun sugar and if it had been even remotely possible i would have driven forever but the road came to an end i think it came to an end i think my hands touched time and black bone and all the howling
and then
i hear the coyotes the day howling of coyotes and the night howling of coyotes and the coyotes are calling me calling me to return to them and the howling is a lullabye and i coil my body and close my eyes
and i
dream and then i see the complete shape the skeleton the flesh the muscle the fur the fire the running i see the whole animal alive and free and hunting when i dream i see my entire self when i dream i see the entire poem
grief, revisited
they say grief is a shadow a black hollow a
deep well a silence without dimensions a
grunting limping thing an ache that fades
and fades and fades
they lie or i was built
wrong i know no fading thing i know i am i
live this bright howling thing electric arc’ing
lightning in every color everywhere all at
once
years have passed and it surprises
me still ambushes me punches me in the gut
a sudden memory an unexpected song the
intense yearning to share new things
how
casual other people are with their love or is
it that they are careless with their grief
tossing it over the first cliff they come to say
to it no i will not shelter you
it is not seemly
to weep and weep i will not let this loss or
any loss make me a child inconsolable and
alone i will pack this loss away in a heavy
box lock it seal it it will never see the light of
day no sound will escape it
i am animal in
my grief the passing of time means nothing
always something wailing always something
whimpering always the beast laying on its
side scratching at the earth
i know no other
way love and grief are in equal measure
each other’s kindling anyone would say it is
too much to ask to be loved this way too
much to say
if you love me love me this way
and if you lose me grieve me this way but
what are we if not fragile vessels of flesh
just barely able to contain all the howling all
the howling dark and bright
ire’ne lara silva, 2023 Texas State Poet Laureate, is the author of five poetry collections, furia, Blood Sugar Canto, CUICACALLI/House of Song, FirstPoems, and the eaters of flowers, two chapbooks, Enduring Azucares and Hibiscus Tacos, a comic book, VENDAVAL, and a short story collection, flesh to bone, which won the Premio Aztlán. ire’ne is the recipient of a 2025 Storyknife Writers Residency, the 2021 Texas Institute of Letters Shrake Award for Best Short Nonfiction, a 2021 Tasajillo Writers Grant, a 2017 NALAC Fund for the Arts Grant, the final Alfredo Cisneros del Moral Award, and was the Fiction Finalist for AROHO’s 2013 Gift of Freedom Award. Her second short story collection, the light of your body, will be published by Arte Publico Press in Spring 2026. http://www.irenelarasilva.wordpress.com