Manzano Mountain Review is an online New Mexico literary journal affiliated with UNM-Valencia.

         Three Poems

by Daniel Luévano

Girl  Shouting “More!” At The Ocean 
I am telling this in the future.
Earlier a year, just running,
she bounds into the foam,
waits for the new wave
& screams away
from the next collapse of the Atlantic.
Turns, yells “More!”
Later a year, wary but compelled,
she has me carry her into waist-deep surf.
Then beachcombers shout.
Ten-something feet of undersea biology
surface & roll
maybe forty feet away.
A nanosecond
before my guts plunge
out my trunks, I calculate
a dolphin. There I am
with my two-something year-old
on the frenulum of earth’s
blue tongue. Later a little
a dad palms a starfish
& my girl strokes its spines.
Earlier a year but a little later
the beach is on-&-on.
She falls off & we let her
sleep while we eat.
She wakes in the warble of her skin
& lounge-deck reggae.
Later but not yet.
Pores salty, corneas red lightning—
hers was an innocent mistake
& the waves cheered on.
Our last day a hose of sea thumbs inland.


A Second Child
Two suspecting that to be one
                                             they’ll have to get more naked.
Inefficient, involving
                              pleasure hubs of the corpus romantic
—tethered as they are between the veil of neuromuscular
bursting and the sad hope you might guess
                                                                got them this far—
move the two through a nexus
that would survive them even as a child:
like the Magritte of the window at the window
like Lippi offspring clutching mama
                                                     like sight to form.
Or bodhisattva
floating in the lotus through, what, ether, what
preexisting, springing
                               not as blooms not as glare held in flowers not yet
grades of morning darkness liquefying
                                                         cobalt to bleach.
Sometime lovers, scalps groomed like lava, mantles
cleaving beneath ocean you are safe aren’t you:
you are only everyone you are becoming.
So, friend,
               what you hold in unmade hands
—what but themselves—what you hold in metaphor
that is you still completely
                                       —let this not burden you
you outside oxygen and blood
                                             —peacocks, cranes and bodi trees—
in this coming to be yourself
                                           not lotus but fetal not ether but meconium
blastocyte to zygote
                             the pace is not of you but through you
and you are invited—


April In Review 
Your blood is loud you hear its waves.
Save me, you say, but the last constellations
won't explode any slower, or by morning
drift in any way closer & who among us
will not disappear into titanium sunshine
& who among us does not vanish
into sorrows as into linear perspective
You, friend, in particular
may go far in the advent of the new clarity
spraying from your garden hose.
As droplets cohere a little soft weather.
Pal, breathe it in. All day
the Milky Way collides with Andromeda
with eagerness & we live through the sparks.
Who among us will not emerge, ourselves
ejected from the slow disembodiment
of light into matter.
Anonymous friend, the future
breaks. Hear it: the whirr
of engineered blossoms.
Sun-up, an enormous April front
streams all up the flat block, streetlamps
firing off & on. But darkness contracts
already into seeds & melts
unstoppably into life. You can't bear it.
You can't sleep any more.
You, hoarder of a darkness
with invisible bottomless pockets.
Beyond, little mountains
wobble in frozen rain
& you remember what you wanted to be.
This morning, a public liaison
carries on between wind & full light
rolling like adulterers in slick
terrestrial sheets, wherein their dirty
thoughts are audible
in shaken windows & the moaning
straits of houses, in the unconscious
wish to propagate, articulate
in buttercups & lilies &
Susans & the such, winter having erased all
physiques, & as a wedding is punctual
& a marriage recursive,
a fecund bride
emerges, shy yet, but then everywhere.
Each day is an egg swallowed whole by its snake.
You sleep in that calcium light, forgetting
this dawn again you’ll quit that blind inertia
& emerge oblivious in bright April.
But if you can't wake
for long, for good, if you think yourself
a gelatinous mound emptied of charms
& collapsed to a collective
animal weight lifted en masse
toward the double x-ray beams
beyond visible light: get up,
get out, you’re dreaming
bad. Along the foothills the real snakes squirm
vein by vein of sediment, a membrane
thicker than the crush of the hissing front
& any light left just molts.
Impenetrable ice accedes to impenetrable wind
& nothing could move me
from MP3s & an unfiltered beer.
I will seek not the company of summer yet
nor the clientele of the cold minds of strangers
& not the patronization of a fifth of good bourbon.
Not yet. The world tends as beautiful as you suggest.
Dry wind shoves passersby off their heels.
Time, a clear fabrication, elasticizes
with less elegance than its sister, space.
Which ruins me worse. A thing as foolish
as a depression, a barometric
self-interest, vast & blameless as genetically
perfected tumbleweed, will calm even in such a bluster.
Not yet. A minute with you.
A word please in the open wind.
The country club not much of one & forgiveness
passé in the new economy
I still want friends who know
what New Year’s really means. Every day.
What hangs over us
but the wet new moon
& our cold reflections in the cosmetic mirrors
beyond it. What hangs over us
but the leaden world in the smelter
of the star opposite. I thought I glimpsed
the lush interiors of the cell,
mine & yours, when lightning floated
instantly in the low reservoir.
By day, the white blossoms must enrage the wind.
By night, what rain dissolves, what is
convicted of human sadness, what
ruts down faces of barely beautiful humans
must delight the calm.
By day, I missed the protesters downtown.
I wish them well.
I saw static-electric ruts down a saturated cliff.
By now I’ve missed the shoppers
closing down the Outlets of Silverthorne.
I wish them everything.
April has mind, but externally, as such:
what an old diversion, new life.
Blame is passé in the season
growing over you. You must understand
what moves you, what shines
within the apparatus within, what beams
out the strata of tissue, of what becomes you,
you or any genetically flawed neighbor.
Mulberry dust whirrs up your cranium.
But you may not leave, you may not
come back. In a loose front of ice
still nothing moves you, in spite of
ego, in spite of personal affections.
Raise a glass & you can't stop laughing.
You know your own deep makings, know
you are a month’s exact worth.
Yearly you survive the crush
of pleasant & sound-minded tourists.
You’re beautiful enough for cinema.
See the hopelessness—
—you want to be consoled.
I don't know why I'm talking.
Ignorance only moons realize.
Before there was me, or you, there was a field.
I’ll race you. I’ll erase you.
Daniel Luévano’s poems have appeared in journals including Fugue and Crab Orchard Review, online at Rust + Moth and Verse, and in the chapbook The Future Called Something O'Clock (Firewheel Editions.) He live in Fort Collins, CO, with his family.