Poetry & mixtape by Ingrid Calderon
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Ode to Saturn
[external] ringed flattened ball of hydrogen, helium and methane-- your 62 moons and 10 hours, 32 minutes and 35 seconds of day explain my persistence to catch up with time; you tilt your axis... your rings, disappear in 30 year returns-- empty shells, void of sunsets head in hand, head in heart, heart in palm, gone-- we sing to hide the stutter in our voices life lives, hostile and waterless slimmed purpose, we are carcasses our own prey, eating off the parts sullied by reserve ice dust rocks arrive in the dead of night acoustic and gaping, float on water our bodies a furnace, where sallow bones explode replaced by discipline-- a moderate caution of foundation I can still taste the tears I shed long ago a shore of scraped sleep-- we seek truth on bended knees settled energies satisfy when criticized; an agonized near-stall I stand naked in gusts of your sighs bound by weeding and extraction we are seeds & gardens of liberation our words wait—bravely we grind addictions down, salt on closed wounds we warm our hearts with an embrace that goes 1,118 miles an hour/ blowing away insecurities [internal] where my fruit grows, it is abundant no tempest on my temples just unruffled breath, hushed repose no filth or melancholy—only sometimes when the need to be cleansed is overwhelming... sprinted paths crushed blooming flowers—watched them scream examples of lifeless pursuits/ /numb/ —needed, were the seeds to sow; blooming came when feet, bare and wise, stepped over, not on...those blooming flowers... clawed and mawed, but intact at least, the parts important-- and isn’t that, what matters most? |
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Ingrid Calderon is a far off island and the lines on the palm of your hand. She writes out of necessity to breathe. She wants to cry deep in your marrow, and push a blade in your navel. She’s you, and you’re her. Find her at @BrujaLamatepec.
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