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Gabriela Gonzales
packing
after the bombs go off, i am
buried underneath body parts that i recognize,
colors i remember somewhere, hidden
deep beneath folds of grey matter.
entire years
feel trashed, feel left over and wasted,
growing pains that feel a lot like pressing my body into boxes,
holding the shape like an actress
in movies she did not remember being cast in. i am
just remembering that
knowing anything takes blood,
losing love like this becomes
missing appendages, finding
nothing where there was always excess
or just enough—so many times it felt like just enough.
plant life takes over my room in shades of those eyes,
quitting this takes over my mind in
rages that i do not understand—i keep telling my best friend that i feel red; we make fun of him
smoking cloves and licking his lips after for the sweet
taste.
understand this, i never thought i would attach like this,
velcro in places i forgot, thinking he is still soft enough to hold this,
wondering why i was never enough, every reason
xenon glowing and still never equivalent to knowing anything for certain.
years feel trashed, left over and wasted, i am
zipping up bags i never knew i would need to close.
About the writer:
Gabriela Gonzales is a writer from Nashville, Tennessee who writes about the strangely beautiful tragedy that is human connection. She won first place for fiction in the 2016, 2017, and 2018 Sandra Hutchins’ Humanities Symposium Writing Awards and received the Ruby Treadway Award for Fiction in 2019. She has had work featured in Awakened Voices Literary Magazine, Waxing and Waning Journal, Cosmonauts Avenue, Kissing Dynamite, Wigleaf, and many other journals. Her poem “Sunday Morning Girl” was nominated for 2020 Best of the Net. She really appreciates giraffes, the oxford comma, and babies dressed like hipsters.
Image: Movement by Jacob Wexler (1912-1995). Acrylic and mixed media on canvas. 92 x 105 cm. 1962. By free license.
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