​Erika M. Martínez
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POETRY

HOW WE SURVIVE
by Erika M. Martínez, March 22, 2020

a mother soothes a newborn
in the frame of a window
his cries inaudible through the pane
like silent wind
still in the weeps of willows
 
no one can pass the threshold
no stranger, nor friend
this woman confined
in the evening--
the so-called witching hour
 
no relief to offer from a 6-foot distance
no way to tender
her the gift
of crisp air fragrant with jasmine
or the warble of robins in the redwoods
 
this is how we survive
through our own necessary
walks at dusk
alone in the Glen

Art by Lemny Pérez
Artwork by Lemny Pérez
RED
​by Erika M. Martinez
(This poem originally appeared in MUTHA Magazine on March 18, 2014)

​blood moon new
slim line dark
maroon drools from my womb
connecting vulva
to pooled water below
three menstrual decades elapsed
unable to stuff minutes or months
under the folds of my breasts
as i wait,
stare between thighs
i want to contain clots
with cupped hands
since earth welcomed me
with finite time
to give life
palms opened to say,
look, this scares me
am i losing pieces
of myself?
how do you bleed?
perhaps this is the end
of choice between two
possible regrets


Artwork by Lemny Pérez
Artwork by Lemny Pérez
PURPLE
by Erika Martinez
(This poem originally appeared in  MUTHA Magazine on March 18, 2014)
​
your little spirit taunts
would it help to know
we would have welcomed you with purple
brought you home to bouquets of hydrangeas
pain is a violet bassoon
bellowing alone
to a concert hall filled with ghosts
hope bumps                        bruises
and ice can only numb
this body black and blued
as i imagine you
with curls gathered in lilac ribbons         you
running through a field of lavender        you
indulging in a bowl of blueberries
you
as i imagine you


Artwork by Lemny Pérez
Artwork by Lemny Pérez
ORANGE
by Erika Martinez
(This poem originally appeared in  MUTHA Magazine on March 18, 2014)

​biting winds slice through my nothingness
through this tree-lined street littered with maple leaves
jack-o’-lanterns heckle me from window sills
from thresholds and crooked stoops
october can only be the month when we first conceived
i tested positive the day i dressed myself
in carrot-colored skinny jeans and paisley
then explored sonoma valley vineyards where canopy foliage
like never-ending orange streamers
unrolled over the landscape
it’s been a year since then
a baby mesmerizes me
feeding himself cubes of squash with his pudgy fingers
his mother thrusts him into my arms
as if contact with his flesh
could pull me from murky currents of loss
but sorrow inundates with rapid reminders
of what will never be
as friends flaunt mother-daughter snapshots in pumpkin patches
i comfort myself with bundles of marigolds
carnelian stones in my pocket
and at the end of a sleepless night
i look for mars in the sky
just before dawn
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  • Home
  • Bio
  • Book
    • About
    • Content
    • The Writers
  • Other Writings
    • Articles
    • Creative Non-Fiction
    • Poetry
  • Events
  • News
  • Contact