by Nikita
Novenas
archway archway frame me matadorly
my head almost always a pearl
ringing in a bell never a prayer
better to be tangled in all these dream
catchers better to be batter up
I’m a broken-down ballerina
I have been standing still you
could light any candle and it would
look just like me especially tomorrow
*
we should try doing all of this again
especially tomorrow I’ll put a rose
in my mouth and gag on it
I mariachi the foals to sleep I let my name
in your mouth leave a gold bite and
say thank you thank you Virgin Mary
of leaking gunpowder why won’t
the fireworks start don’t leave there’s just
enough stars to make a new flag
*
I’m rattling like a clunker isn’t it funny
how I see myself most in the women
my father calls insane I see myself mist
at my best I’m pinned wings and all
for careful scrutiny at least I’m lovely
I could close the door on every version
of myself that sunbursts out of a revolver
but whose house would that be and what
if they return as I’m biting into their lemon
If a Star, Break This Elegy into All Its Reaching Fingers
If a star, lullaby up and down freely.
If a star, love me from a reasonable distance.
If a star, a scar glimmering.
If a star, hydrangea me blue.
If a star, swallow me first.
If a star, carve.
If a star, crave me lonely.
If a star, swirl with gorgon eyes.
If a star, look with crackling mirrors.
If a star, give God this hydrangea.
If a star, cosmos me laughing.
If a star, smear me light.
Seven Cinquains
Lie down
like a field full
of soft flowers daring
the clouds lower into that al-
most kiss.
:::
Most kiss
like the war is
ending but news of it
slow to reach–your hands open like
lilies.
:::
Lilies.
Blue bells. Clover.
Tulips. Wisteria
wild in our hair. Rainwater all
we need.
:::
We need
more than we can
say. We say each other’s
names like we’re scientists naming
new moons.
:::
New moons
but I’ve lost count
of the ones I suspect
never forgave us. Still the night
blues back.
:::
Bruise back
if the river
darkens in glass curtsy.
Love, I never notice water
rising.
:::
Rust in-
juring our palms,
time tapping its claws –that
impatient animal we’ve made
lies down.
C.T. Salazar is a Latinx poet and librarian from Mississippi. He’s the author of This Might Have Meant Fire (Bull City Press, 2019). His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Rumpus, Beloit Poetry Review, The Cincinnati Review, RHINO, 32 Poems, Grist, and elsewhere.
Nikita is a 25 year old living in St. Louis City, MO. He started painting seriously in March of 2018 and paints for the joy of his self. From a range of minimalism to abstract, to a bit more concrete, Nikita wishes to paint what he perceives with his diagnosed schizoaffective mind. He wishes that his art will blast inspiration into the hearts and minds of the viewers.