Poems by Jhon Sanchez

“remember the Dot,” Said My Doctor

A dot under my lower lip Purple touch that grows With my tongue and words The storm of wine tasting Those kisses for now are fear

An apple disarranges its roundness, soiled on my kitchen table Neither apt for the knowledge tree nor for a sinful bite Lipstick to accept death but not the end of beauty If at least our shroud-skin would linger red like sun dried tomatoes.

revival of a Night Visit

January, mild rainy day A bag on these shoulders of 28 years, close to midnight Guilt twinkles my door is open, “Have you eaten?” Broccoli, and a can of tuna, some fruit The sweat of four days, I ask you to leave in the shower Once those fresh drops emanated straight to my delight “Did you have some drinks?” No lies this time No beating of my voice The boots on the steamer And my house-rules of cover beds and wearing shirts at the table Questions without sex or saliva Time to sleep Breakfast, the sugarcane beverage of smiles Reading my name on a book and this face of admiration A reminder that you did not raise your nose high enough I make you sit like a client looking for legal advice, instead of mere compassion Has justice dusted off my fingerprints from your skin? My declaration that “Guests break my routine,” and I forget about the winter I closed another door behind you Feeling caresses of that beard along my spine Should I have never pictured you the secrets of my blood? A narrative transfusion of fears Pose for the death row at 28th birthday Prune the basil before any blossom Sprinkle the spice in that portrait Before the spider weaves a web around your eyes