Poetry from Luna Acorcha

A Few Years Later
And then it turns into I love it.
I love you, but I am sorry.
He is like a young girl.
But honestly, she is a bitch.

 

Although I am unaware
that I am aware,
I am conscious
of your consciousness
and the feeling of
apple juice
warmed on an aluminum free
pot
making me feel
again of that time in which I was awakened
too early to recall
and too late to be rowed away
in the mug painted with
Mars, Venus, and Jupiter.
Mom, I really love that mug
and I am glad we still have it.
And mom I like talking to you.

 

I like this difference we have though,
it keeps us going. You get me?
Like, I want to know what thoughts of yours
will follow the thoughts of mine
that I proposed should hover
in this stretch.
Because it is expected-
a time for you to just know.
And Mom? When did you stop making me breakfast?

 

There are things I should do,
but, you know, I do not want to.
And I have no clue why
“Why,” has become a demand.

 

Now I need to ask you for a response
for someone else
because I am certainly uncertain of myself.
Friend, we do await on street
that has gathered blossoms in the gutter
for the attraction.
We remain unsure as to why
you invite us onto the velvet chair
of your front door stoop
and we become quite puzzled
when you ask again for clarification.
This illogical reassurance has
become most assuring.