By: Laura Mota
wheels dive in the slush puddle.
under the sun, gray becomes silver.
in over a year, slush on the asphalt is the closest I got to the ocean.
from time to time, chunks of hoarfrost fall from the roof to my window
and sunbathing in my underwear, I get scared.
it's these little scares that make me feel retracted.
I've been diminishing my contact surface with the world.
what an uninteresting thing for a writer to do.
sometimes, I pretend I don’t need to cross streets,
so cars don’t have to wait for me to pass at the intersections.
these are days I live quietly, trying not to interrupt others.
I've been confused between kindness and quietness,
if meanings got lost, I'm probably unsuccessfully kind
and unsuccessfully quiet. in my vocabulary, success is intention.
I heard that often forgetful people are just not paying enough attention.
my absentmindedness makes me forget the placement of objects
like the ring my mom gave me when I turned fifteen and keys.
as keys are more urgent, I search for them in rooms I haven't been.
Maya Deren, let me see your tongue.
Maya Deren's mouth only has Maya Deren's key.
my tongue has nothing but the whiteness of drinking too much coffee.
I must not forget that caffeine doesn't accelerate spring's arrival, vaccination,
or visits to my home country and the south atlantic ocean.
I try tricks, methodically undressing and sunbathing by the window
but my body isn't fooled by winter sun and thermostat warmth.
I can't ignore my landscape.
hoarfrost. oppressive looking UPS trucks. silver slush.
Laura Mota is a Brazilian writer, portrait photographer, and tote bags painter based in Montreal. She never owned an umbrella and often laughs out of nervousness. Her poems were published by High Shelf, Portal Magazine, and Dreamers Magazine. She is currently attending Concordia University as an undergraduate student in Creative Writing.