the Forgetting Look

This late in the year she’s coughing up a bed.

With a pair of scissors and a pen

she begins to lay the flowers out.


She opens her mouth and they fall

onto the pages of her book and she’s

started to hate them.


Volume after volume full and full of petal bits;

full of stem and seed.

But she can’t bring herself to lose them

nor can she help wish them away.


No matter how deep and black her longing is

or how vicious her words want to be

when she goes to speak them

they flock from her lips and flutter down.


‘Til they are saved-

crushed in the forever there of her book

(like a bible). Always to remind her

what weakness she is capable of.


shirt sleeves.

she goes on and buffs the bone-

how sinew is gold

and ribs pristine.

her temple-legs all adorned

she’s a flaming sword away

from making her point.


I’m more than happy down here-

pouring this stuff

down the hole.

my meat is murder and

the only thing hanging

in my halls is dust and noise.


she thinks these falling apart

skins are meant for honing and

keeping clean


I just want to sin some more

and pile on the dirt-

she won’t let me do the damage


adrian ibarra


Adrian was one of the last students to graduate from Cal State Los Angeles with a BA in Creative Writing; he took it as an omen. He wrote a poem a day, every day, in 2010. The finished project can be found at

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