Archive for Cristina Dominguez

Shes Speak — Cristina Dominguez

Shes Speak


Untying the

muscle noose

braided by

common law

punishment of


with slow






from pens


over the

Black Atlantic

they are



love songs








Thick and



linked ripples of


but flowing

liquid life


pooled on

the mouth

of my



I came

with a mirror

hoping we’d

both look

and see

but we saw

other faces

that told us

we had to

take the


left in the

bottom of

a trash bin

seeping out of

21 year old you

to write


Shes speak

refusing to sync

showing that

in close harmony

there is still range

in the same color



in touching

both shores



The newspapers

the ones that


casualties and

martyr survivors

in printer chimes

have forgotten



to stay

in the lines




next to




ready to speak

as I read

others’ words

of you



the notes

on your



-Cristina Dominguez



Deathbed by Cristina Domiguez

I cut through comforter

mattress and frame to find it

twisted under corkscrew tongues,

cotton mouthed on molted feathers

folded in the bruised knuckle knots

that muffled amorous arrhythmia

I saw the tremor

an egg white quiver

splintered by the slats

in a stoic stare

I found you there

Stiff finger sticks

bundled together

my name

a still born love poem

a too young obituary headline

Wrinkled beyond repair

you are there, lying

We are there,

limb and limb

spine to spine





I drop below the caution tape,

You can’t be dead,

no one can be

pressed in the pages

of an open book

Watching the proteas thaw

I pull the cloud corpse

to the cold curb

and in the morning dew,

will not mourn you

“Overexposure” by Cristina Dominguez

In a dark room
by my fingertips

can I unravel
to develop your thoughts

can I resist
my deep

girlchild afraid
to stay awake in the dark
itching, heart fidgeting
to flip on the switch

dark brown beach
with a worm hole center
quicksand caving into
the core

they’ve always been
pupils of pain
studying nightmares

maps of the past
where, “you are here”
circles back
to present day

gripping the grief
pulled tight over them,
the winter solstice
that froze the fire

will eye blink
and miss it
squinting I
in the blur of hope

purposeful prints soaking
your imprint
in calm
but begging liquid

pressing: don’t hide from me this time

nakedly staring
spent, open and wet
limp in soft cold sweat
born in my arms

I’ll trace the braille
words are wishes,
subliminal images
to lost sight

in this split second shudder
of our inventure
I felt warm light

“Discretion” by Cristina Dominguez

Propose with purpose
signing silence’s surname
take this ring my tongue

“Currency” by Cristina Dominguez

Fold foreign paper
in the curve of my left breast
where my heart should be

“Locked Roof Bohemia” by Cristina Dominguez

Invite mystery
praying to be preyed upon
to prey on her knees

“Teeth” by Cristina Dominguez

I watch her
piano fingers
reach up
to touch
ivory keys

Curves of pearls
inside a clam
pried open
on spiraled sand

She takes
her flesh covered
bone hooks
claws at enamel
digging pink beds, red

a beautiful animal
go mad

In a looking glass
turning crimson copper
ripping permanence
rinsing and drowning it
in the sink

“Friendly Fire” – A Slam Poem In Honor of Pride by Cristina Dominguez

Those nearest
and dearest
don’t hear
or see us
at times
because they can
remain blinded
by their own lives.

My home is your home;
what’s mine is yours
what’s yours is mine:
Yours is mine
watch me turn a blind eye
watch me lie
“We are equal”

They see us as
exaggerating radicals
making battles
where peace prevails
shattering their perspective
by making concrete
their advantage point,
the connection between
their heteronormativity
and our lived inequity

Can I ask you a question?
I don’t understand
Who’s the man?
How can I brand you?
so I can see
so we can be
“We are the same”

the detainment of our
how live and let live
isn’t live and let thrive
we’ll survive

So sex
…yes that’s next
how do you?
There isn’t a
penis present
so here it is
and entering
into you
“We are the same”

This phallocentric tendency
isn’t just diminishing me
but their own
Only his
Erect flesh
Makes the act correct?
I guess…

Why are you offended?
This can be men-did.
We can work this out
into a peace
and ease that will
please this
place of power
I can judge you from

Look I’m so evolved
and so involved
and invested,
and molesting your
intimate life.
I’m open-minded
I, don’t
my minor mistakes,
give me a break
“We are the same”

Interrogating and
isn’t creating,
isn’t nurturing
my future.
grow ripe
in the light
of your assumptions.
Seeds from the quick,
cheap, consumption
of my life.
But in that
surviving act,
we are the same

“Diealysis” by Cristina Dominguez

maybe it is that I can’t weave or sew
hands wave in circles to fashion our futures
thread embedded in feelings I don’t know
again, the Lady in red in need of sutures

on the corners when we seek company
the familiar pattern and needles wait
cheap tapestry touted as luxury
leaves me unable to fathom my fate

my arm she-handled ,“You have good veins”
“Worthless” my pulse whispered under the tie
and slowly she drew out that which remained
“It’s fine”–but an exhale, a reflex lie

Matted love knots bind and clot my heart
Bleed me of misery, donate my art

“Resurrection” by Cristina Dominguez

I lay where the grass dips between burial plots, my hip fits right in the groove. Separating effaced tablets, between grave, stone faced bed-mates, I am a frayed red ribbon book-mark—claiming her space, the living between the dead. They tell me I can’t stay here all night. I need to get used to sleeping in my own bed, but they don’t know how beds haunt me, how beds are more like coffins for me, how I’m more alive here with ivy curling in between the toes of my finally still feet.

Too heavy to stand I roll over each mound, with each twirl I push my face deeper into the ground and when I am right on top of them I pause to face them. Words don’t need to be spoken, they are written, the veins in my eyes, they crawl out onto my cheeks into the soil moistening the sockets of their skulls where marigolds will grow. “Just this once” one concedes. I bed down in the moss and the spiral strands of my hair land among the flower-weeds.

I rest my head on prayer, my worries are strung on cramped bent fingers reaching for a pen. The morning fog stretches like an opaque plastic bag over my face. I mouth Hail Mary but am signing my poems, omens for the coming of the queen.

Slams and clicks beneath my fingertips, aisles and rows of embossed tablets, each say my name. This is the altar where I lay to rest my dead, this is the place where I will live.

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