Volume Two, Issue 3

Noemi Ixchel Martinez

In my body is this poem

body is this
about the
before all the

scars I traced
my body
to me
but it doesn't
the game

all the trees were
before all

pretend my
strong enough
the trees were

I'd pretend
my body
these wrists
before all the sun
went away
my body is a

It comes

it comes
again in poems and dreams in eyes
next/ to me/
scratch of your beard/
inside my thighs/
wet with salt and ocean
I pack again,
say to no one this time but the waves
come at night
over other #metoos
and the way our bodies respond to stimuli I
explain, left your mask
in bits in my cells and folds I thought you'd left
but I find you


Sing avocado pits
your small bursting blood seeds
your fleshy reaching meat
confined in fibrous walls

yr not gonna say it back?

I'm gonna devour you
eat you whole
tear bits of you
to fill my empty holes
open your ribs
find the mouse
let it out

I wanna devour you
all the bits
remember how you satiated me
how the heart was full

let me devour you
make you mine
carry you inside
your nice meat
your hard meat
dark meat
wet meat

I’m gonna devour you
before you turn
into a monster by the moonlight
before you show me your fangs
before you crack my ribs
there there
I love you too

Our Bodies are Shells that Remind Us We Belong to the Ocean

There is a mythology to this accidental
lapse in consciousness.
She is part of the infinitesimal beyond
Part of this experiment of decaying bodies
where the extent of this flesh and lived possibility
stretches our bodies across oceans
A virtuous purpose they tell me.
I nod as if discussing frying eggs,
be patient they say
God has counted all the leaves
in all the trees outside the hospital room
They read from a bible and I am
reminded of history lessons where your
ancestors acted as intercessors for him,
and other atrocities I have since forgotten
I am part of the infinitesimal beyond
this experiment of decaying bodies.

dear cristela,

you ever visit the old places
here in the valley
I tried once but can't
the cords around
found in a ditch in Edinburg
with ribbons around her face
down the street where I slept
there was a white house in Elsa
donde le pasamos luz
with an extension cord
and they’d give us food
on occasion
when we were empty
Cristela, in school
we made the substitute
cry and quit
we’d go hungry waiting for lunch
Edcouch Elsa has its demons
and I only go to see my dad now
never pass by the house
where moras grew in the front
I’d sneak home after lunch
to be sick in bed
allergies, nosebleeds, fights
teacher saying I didn’t need
college prep, he refused to add
my name
to the list
in Edinburg, I slammed a door
so hard outside of class
the frame cracked
and I never went back
Cristela, we ate all our lunches
and breakfasts at school
and still empty
summers near Baseball Street
we’d spend at the library
to get free books.
Then a long walk to the churches
to get free lunches.
are you saved? yes yes
when you left
are you still hungry?
I sometimes smell
like Edcouch
riding the bus, cut grass
how I grew to hate
school and lunches and libraries

Noemi Ixchel Martinez: "I am a poet and mixed media artist with ancestral magic from Mexico and Puerto Rico."

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