Poems By Marie Anne
Poet and fiction writer Marie Anne was born in Hermosillo, Sonora, México. She currently studies Arts management at ITSON University and has complemented her education with diplomas on Creative writing, Film photography, Screenwriting, and Film Production at CIBEF, the Ibero-American Center for Photo and Film Studies in training, consulting, production and research. Her work has been selected for publication in international anthologies and magazines.
I remember my life looking for the presence of fish along a green canal that my mother first encountered. I remember my nephew got to meet you and referred to your radiant grace, as a captured little sun ray, which made me think that the constant inexhaustible flame that kept your body alive was an eastering, and that you looked at every other member of my family with such a gentle glance— wide eyes that never wanted to miss anything from this way of life, more even so, after my mother left this earth. I remember that as we threw her ashes in a nearby beach, the surface of the water came suddenly alive: a violent roiling and dance number of the roaring waves. We waved her goodbye and called this a morning. All in one explosion: the encounter, my nephew, your sun rays, the sand. I still notice particles forming in the foam. A person’s shadow or your green aura emerges out of a thick, drifting mist, and the soft voice of the pelicans adhere to frame the inanimate image as a description that attempts to say that, many things not only are gone after they’re aging, but departure to a sense of how brief everything can be if you're not holding into the right hands. I love to perceive your silver ring as it tangles to my lace gloves and I think, you were just what I needed to happen.
After the moment of our wading, and the winter’s warm resurrection after fall... well, dear traveler; we have converted. With our body in the dusk. And our thrones. All comfy and square. We learn to make layers as if the world was the easy peeling of an onion. I learned to climb on this day of sunlight across the green leaves to reach a new height. The blur of colors means we arrived. I would wake and hear the voices of a memory so vividly. When I was not driving 1800 miles in a distant city to run my fingers through my lover’s hair, I was waiting for the pregnancy test results in a clinic at my local home. Our memory allows us to walk backwards. This is the way one can wander through life. The person you are now, like a second plan to the one you once planned to be. Nevertheless. It is best of course, to be engaged with the grammar of the Ethos. Constantly admiring how the words you highlight are the ones you didn’t turn your attention away from. One makes love, makes problems, makes Mac N Cheese. Are you ok with the constant blur? This is why some birds are so determined to fly. Only a thin selection of steamer ducks understand the whole Anatidae paradigma. So at peace when realizing that this has become a thought entirely of their authority. We don’t know a thing about sticking to just one home, no matter the limit. So we move backwards now, as we are victims of our own nostalgia. At least many of us.