Cord the Wind
Diego Zavala-Morineau

Cross-section, vibrating, veneer,
of greys in boreal, it calls itself, Dad,
and we’ll mince evening words,
“how are you?”
fell the warm wind--
found its floorboard in soil,
only fair-trades like ours,
spoils of war,
creeping drywall folds,
this old house should fall;
yet, the hours pass us,
my sweater, hung there,
on unshapely agreement,
so Marxian and legible,
my lonely world flickers,
back to this study of mine,
some couple hours,
north, away.

Northern, burlapped, streams,
pheromone carried in cursives, Mom,
I make for the allelopathy,
sitting on overburden,
cording twigs into curls,
soothsayed by fountains,
your hair falls from trees,
and I’m remembered by home,
trouble closes our distance,
listening–
or is this muscle memory?
I squinted and saw chaparral in sagebrush,
subliming a solace, so South-Bay,
our stomping grounds,
digging into sharp rocks,
dancing, decay.

Diego Zavala-Morineau (PO '28) is a poet , artist, scholar from the South Bay (National City and South-West Chula Vista). His earlier works explored the turmoil of young adulthood and grief, and in his latest corpus of writing, "BLUE IN THE FACE," learns from the experimental and exploratory traditions of Elizabeth Bishop, Prageeta Sharma, Jaswinder Bolina. Diego enjoys writing about family, transnationalism, and embedding political criticism within his creative writing.