Weather by Ingrid M. Calderon-Collins


In bed all day.

There’s a huge city out there, but the planes and the helicopters don’t faze me. The ambulance and

the gunshots don’t faze me. It’s like a thunderous concerto in the middle of town.

Unapologetic buildings looking at me with laser green eyes and hot pink intentions.

I want the noise to linger, but I want this hole to fill up.

Damn insomnia.

Traffic acts as free self-hypnosis and the white noise lulls.

An ocean by my bedside.

On any given day, the city brings with it enchanting aromas down my hallway, and a man in my bed

who loves me.

When he wasn’t here it was harder than it seemed.

This man in my bed, he’s insane.

He’s full of love, and he can’t help but tell me how much of it he has in his sleep; wakes up, eyes

closed, slides his tongue down my throat and whispers it into my open mouth.

When I manage sleep, I dream of tidal waves coming to an iconic halt right above me.

I’d like to think that it means something; I always enjoy the assumption that I’m way more

important than I am.

I bleed on his hands cause he tells me to. He doesn’t mind, he wants it, and sonnets are written in

my name when I’m not there.

He holds me in my sleep.

I can’t tell you how hot his hands are, like desert rocks in July. His cock, just as warm, imagine how

thrilled I am come winter.

Your body was built for sex,” he says calmly on the last day of November.

“I was built for sex,” I repeat.

He tells me we’re part of something bigger, and I can’t help but agree. Love makes poets and angels

of us all.

Most days I wake up sore, as if I fought for sleep to come. As if all I had, was the strength to allow

the heft of sleep to bruise my heavy bones.

I set small fires in my sleep.

3 a.m. demons rough me up, split leg paralysis, like the dreamy waves of a zealous enemy. I chant in

English, Spanish, and French out open windows, and if I’m not careful, the smoke from my body

can wake the neighbors.

Dreams creep up like dice.

When I slip into bed, it is my tomb.

I feel him filling me up, and the vast sky opens up, and when I come, the sky lowers from the heavy

thrust of my body flinching upward.

(I’m so numb, I can barely feel him fucking me.)

(I’m so numb, I can barely feel him fucking me.)


This city is so fragile.

A little rain and thunder makes cars glide; lonely people crashing into each other, choking on their


Poetry dissipates on those streets. Instead, it’s abstract art on wheels, tilting and frowning without

consequence, happens every time.

Then, like some sort of sad miracle, the sun comes up and the rain and thunder wane, like they

never happened.

Windows open, and trash gathers in corners. I can smell the Plumeria wafting in through my screen,

regardless of the garbage, regardless of the screams.

Your nails are like knives,” he whispers.

Machetes that fray me while I sleep.

I sleep in camouflage because I’m always at war.

Hour by hour I wonder how long this feeling will last.

I’m still fizzing from 30 hours of no sleep, 30 hours of wide awake mountains and the psychedelic

sun in chromatic colors splitting the sky open. Birds living where most things die; fish bones under

my dirty Nike’s.

Split open talus, while the fibulas and tibias that make up my posture can’t hold me up now.

When my ankles don’t work, I feel justified.

I figure, if I can’t stand on my own two feet, the rest don’t matter.

Old fractured land underfoot, we live dangerously. Who cares if the earth can swallow us up? Who

cares what happens when the salmon-mauve-cobalt sky rots in front of me.

In these desert dreams, I’m saved, saved from noise and the bad bad thoughts that usually burn

through my head. I see colors, muted and concerned like a desperate lover. I see the hot sun, the

tired hands, the gallons of paint running down dedicated fingers.

Swirling membranes on ceilings and small candles, altars and wishes atoned on Polaroid’s riddled

with regret.

In this dream, we’re in a small town, and we drink strong coffee that looks like melted chocolate and

tastes like drowsy mud.

Cottonwood Mountains overhead spilling like silk.

Windmills unhinge and cut me in half.

It’s a shame after trying so hard, for so long to end up speckled on lost highways with guts intact.

I’ve come to know my place in vast corners. I’ve come to know my smallness and my candor have

no place with pylons and wires.

My eyes are soft and wet, and once we reach the half-way point the sky begins to cry again. The

storm triumphs like Judgment day, and we laugh.

Helicopters swipe and red lights suggest danger, even if the streets look shiny and new.

It’s 3 a.m., and there’s mud and bones in the cracks of my shoes.

And this man in my bed smiles with eyes closed and asks, “How was it?


Like a dream...

Speaking in Tongues By Abigail Pearson