Details |
Keila Cruz Poem
Scrape away, at a life. You just weren’t given any real instructions –
so, you scrape like a carpenter
at grey washed walls, wanting
to peel off old paint – old memories,
in your head you scrap away
the talk back – that little
squirrel inside the trunk of your head
it scrapes.
You scrape and scream, you scrape and
feel the muscle of your right hand
figure the page into
something. You scrape
days and trash them. Who
will find them? Who cares that you scrape
while in labor? scrape every morning you wake –
scrape on body, scrape on heart, scrape on this
bloody life
until you just can’t scrape –
Copyright © Keila Cruz | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Keila Cruz Poem
Because this glass jar I call life,
overfills with the unforeseen,
the lid
almost bursting, G-d’s hand
never giving
in to the chaos, always
holding down
the lid.
Because of the glimmer
of sunlight
that filters through my eyelids,
this jar lid,
is
mine
and I vow
that I may savor
the moments of sweet
jam and brined
pickles
equally,
by G-d’s Good Graces.
Copyright © Keila Cruz | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Keila Cruz Poem
She shivers about, tense
at the inhospitable world
blinds and plexiglass seal frightened creatures from.
Rocking
from root to root —
in front, in back, in
the sun’s silhouette, the wind fancies her social anxious, as if
her and I were not sustained by the same substance, as if
our roads will not diverge. When I
learn her shiver, she softens, then jerks
her bough closer
with the reluctant certitude of soul
wanting to imagine glass as air.
Copyright © Keila Cruz | Year Posted 2025
|