Poems: Daniela Serrano


Soft, perfect, beautiful light draping over
a wasted day.

A day when people have
       beers on a porch
               when first dates are had.

       A day when people look past you
at the window and say:
it's a beautiful day,
won ́t you go out?

it's an embarrassment of riches
to waste such a day

it's insolence in the face of a
higher power

it's saying: i will live forever,
         your beautiful day
         means nothing to me

A wasted beautiful day is
also, holy, my own

When i have a craving of myself.

That beautiful soft light
lands on the body that refuses to be
        of the world
                like an offering.


I never want to be told how to enjoy things
“You regret the things you don´t do” people read aloud
But what of the joy felt from opportunities wasted
The imagined kiss,
not dancing--God forbid not jumping--was so pleasurable.
                             The sweetness of having stuck to my guns.

When I die I will take all I did not do with me
       present it to no one,
               give no explanations

Sex never felt like an urge, but some dull, replaceable craving.
That I won't explain either.

Why fling myself at all of life
When I can satisfy myself
within my small quadrants of pleasure.


An archaeologist bends over a pot of rice
A plate of food
The lake of an abandoned mop,
       with imposible care.

Ruins must be treated with love and care
Like a painting waiting restoration

You no longer have time for that sort of care
and love.

The home that used to suffocate you
Now falls apart
      not because of you, but also not sparing you.

The past of a sloppy empire can be guessed
In that plate you now use for feeding.


I ́ve been read every psalm of the bible in a bus.
A moveable, shared chapel.
Whispered rosaries and swippings of make up.
Verses spat at sleepy and inconvenient passengers

La ignorancia es atrevida, niña.
So many years thinking it wasn't right,
      to line public chair with holy whispers.

But at the same time I covered my own pews
With the poetry that propped me together.
               So many sad poems read after a quick bus-nap.
La ignorancia es atrevida, niña.
A woman scolds me after catching over my shoulder a comparison between God and multiple
indecent animals,
and a couple of household objects.

Both of us tearing our retinas apart in public transport.
Hoping all this reading isn't in vain.
Daniela Serrano is an editor, writer, and translator. She has worked in publishing in Colombia and Boston, and previously written about books and literature, among other things, for Pank MagazineBustleElectric LitThe Millions, and the Ploughshares blog. These four poems in Queen Mob’s Teahouse are her first poetry publication.

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