Uno 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. Dos 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. Ocho 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. Nueve 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 Magazine, Bustle, Electric Lit, The Millions, and the Ploughshares blog. These four poems in Queen Mob’s Teahouse are her first poetry publication.