by Robbie Sugg

Passing through the heart
of town, the swollen
Guadalupe River

Simply breathing this
wet air, I am stoned
beyond description

Valley oaks I never
noticed on the median
under the 280 overpass

The old pueblo
coughs up shards of China
bowls bricks and bottles

Guan Yin was bald and brown–skinned
wrapped in a Navajo blanket
at the crossroads

of San Fernando
and Market Street
This year the late rains

Winter came with Spring
the creeks heavy with seep
and persistent cherry blossoms

Funny they never
named Coyote Creek
after a saint

El Camino changed course
to accommodate squares while
the river abides its path
Floodbanks altered
soil compacted for houses
on the high water table

Passing through the heart
of town, the swollen
Guadalupe River

by Celina Villagarcia

pressed against the backs
of eyes, tears            offer
the slightest fire
on room–warm
arms                warmth of
memory builds waves
of regret           over lost
dreams

                        the unlived days

sometimes        i am so full of blessing

thanks, like rain, snake down cheeks,
river beds rerouting      as i lean
my face skyward

                                     in gratitude

inexpressible words
                                stuck
                                in my throat

by Celina Villagarcia

I want to birth one hundred children
a river full of bearing
— arms waving        in welcome
eyes closed
                                innocence

I want to birth a thousand babies
a sea mirrored
                        with windows             smiles
geometric eyes squinting up

hope spooned by the ounce–full

spilling over

the immense body that is our loving

by Celina Villagarcia

In a hundred years         your fingers
too frail         to braid with mine
legs too burdened by
time’s hand to walk         with me,

I will live the rest of my hundred years
lying in the same bed         as you
mirroring your hollow sack of bones

I will inhale the thousand years of you

My thin skin might skim yours
two cobwebs floating on branches
                                       your

labored tha –tha –thumping
             your breath filling

                                          my own
                    lungs

. . . and I will whisper
I love you

My hundred years
are sacred cows
wandering

in your pasture