Live From The Field

water struck

by celina ma kwan

the news says “el niño has arrived.”

and mornings have made these walls

hues of suppression

my back has limboed it’s way in the return of

emptiness where my body

has spilled itself

remain here where these

sheets are now stained of me

and everything that is lost

there are no sounds of rain

but the pounding


of conflict carrying weighing


shoulder aching jaw clenching


you call my name – three syllables stretched out

tightly in unfamiliar tongue

i do not call yours

in return but notice the movement

of your arms later instead and the way your calluses

are dried from shredding sun rays

and every quarter past noon

your arms extend out the same way

you give

let of possessions and of those

that are not

there are no sounds of rain

but you allow your pores to respirate

in moments of stillness

in the embrace of release

in ground of feet and

you say “el niño has arrived.”