A selection of three poems by Martin Castro

Fiction, Fresh

funerary afterparty

Lean on the brown ledge looking out
or maybe at the prism dew suspended on the windowpane
count brown leaves struck down by rain.
Mesmerized by the violence of it all.

in white hands an empty ashtray, the veins protruding up the wrist.
cradle hands on knees, ashtray pulling at stiff cotton.

behind me she creaks a step forward and drapes a hand by my neck

can I have a drag?

can I borrow your jacket?

I find myself drawn mostly to the women who remind me
that caring is not a one-time indulgence when convenient or
a decision to be proud of. She says, it is our finest vice.

But I’ve walked through salt wind naked long enough
to know that calloused hands do not condition;
dipped in honey they remain as rough.

Whoever told us love was universal read it blind on the
cracked bleeding lips of a boy raised mute in a brothel.

I tell her this through a shared cigarette outside,
she ripples by the moon. Holds me for the first time.

As we walk back in her breathing deafens me.

looking inside a house


dim streetlight rushing past like silk
walking around a house, looking inside                                                          windows,
seeing the light on,
nobody’s home.

eleven twelve p m
all the houses are asleep
this one

Eastern window
chipped crumb plate by the sugar
living room sofa silhouetted in the distance

the grass still wet with the rain from 4 hours ago
but lush! green! shuddering under porchlight

the siding with moss
too plastic.
This is what happens

i am

Black tri-dot

Image by Kat Northern Lights/ flickr