by Regina Faunes
Tuesday we watched our lives
drain out of us,
like watching the sea:
beautiful and terrifying.
Then we ate fish baked in lemon butter
and a little cayenne.
Every night the cats sleep in a little closer;
a counterpoint to the boys we had
long ago in a village by the ocean,
where we watched the Southern Cross
shoot across our dome of night sky
while the children folded into us,
as if to find a portal back
across the constellations
to where they left something
The night sky pointed us one way,
whispered instructions in the sea breeze,
sibilant and wise.
We went the opposite direction,
are forever going the other way
spinning like tops
trying to rustle up our own wind
in this still space.
by Regina Faunes
Of the floppy leaves
On the fig tree, sensuous
In a way
Devoid of motives.
Of the rocking chairs, empty,
Rocked by the wind.
Of the fine mist that fell
The day we left, like vapor
Rising up from the earth
To blur the sharp edges
That hurt us.
Of the sea crashing around below,
Tireless in its call.
We walked down the dusty path
Past empty houses,
Towels flapping in the breeze
On decks where potted geraniums
And wild vines
Shoved at each other
In their efforts to secure
A view of us as we made
Our way to the shore.
Regina Faunes graduated from the University of Texas, where she
received her Ph.D. with a focus on Latin American Literature. She
teaches Spanish at St. Edward’s University, where she has worked
since 2001. Faunes was born in Guatemala, but her family moved to
Santiago, Chile, before her first birthday. She was raised in Santiago
and came to the United States to attend the university. She has published
a short story in Tropos, a journal published by Michigan State University,
and a poem in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review.
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Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary
Volume 6, Number 1
Copyright © 2011
by Leah Browning, Editor.
All future rights to material
published in the Apple
Valley Review are retained
by the individual authors