hung -- Nathalie Molina Niño


part of: Poetry

by Nathalie Molina Niño

my hands tremble
as the words hang
the door slams
hung men
voices hang

we are our own impotence
we hang on stunted
in permission
ask for it and pay
the price is high
the night is long
hang there like the
flowering moon
the one that short circuits
women chanting

do not make the same
do not ask me for permission
some doors are hung
too precariously
slamming them
creates suction and
a seal
that ire cannot open.

hang up not down
hang there
with short wicks
and impatience
a fire left to burn unwatched
rarely cares
about the soft
the bruises or the sorrow
the fire burns even
those who wish to hold it
the fire burns even
those who wish to heal it

Doors slam
Words hang
Fire burns

Your instruments are
blunt and prehistoric
so too, my instincts.