Tag Archives: Valentina Cano

Tableau of a Miami Suburb

by Valentina Cano

The water shines with grease,

the kind that sticks to scales,

digging beneath them like grout.

Sucked dry plastic bottles

rest against the stained grass,

artifacts waiting for a death

that will never come.

The wind ruffles nylon,

not feathers,

as it moves in hot gasps,

and the dirt is bleached

grey with the sun bearing down on everything.

Just one more bored neon light.


Hollow Woman

by Valentina Cano

While the woman watched TV,

the room around her decided to leave.

To take itself away from someone

who chewed air,

who thought of nothing

but of the empty spaces between words.

The room could not stand another

minute of her breathing,

silent, strong, and tasting of the endless

cups of cheap tea cooling like bathwater in her stomach.

The room left

and the woman never noticed.

If, Then

by Valentina Cano

If I could unclench

my mind’s fist from around

each corner of my life,

then I’d have room to live.

Maybe even room to imagine

a future that doesn’t twirl

like over-polished hotel doors.

One that is not filled

with crisp days folded like napkins,

but instead with ones like

the untucking of bed-sheets on a boiling night.


Home Movies

by Valentina Cano

Watching as her young body

ran through a winter-soaked yard,

the woman clenched a fist by her side

like a held breath.


Knotted with misplaced time.


Wishful Butchering

by Valentina Cano

Some days people trample

all over my skin.

Their heeled words write

into mounds of meat and globules of fat,

crop circles in full daylight,

making me want to slice chunks off

with my nails.

On these days,

my body becomes someone else to run from

with nowhere real to go.