Archive for Cristina Dominguez

“The Wolf who Cried” by Cristina Dominguez

black tear streaked cheeks
matted, mangled legacy
lilies on her grave

ink scratched surface
smudging untarnished white page
awaken white rage

Brush her with dry bristles
Splinter dark revelation
Innocent white out

new moon, cold light-bulbs
your halo around my neck
hoarse, breathless howl

Foaming and Feral
Thirsting for clear consciousness
Turn water into whine

folding the blood-stained wings
gilded greater good

white lies handcuff truth
under rubble, dirt and root
the she-wolf still lives

“Madame Name” – A Poem by Cristina Dominguez

He handed her over
to the knife
and she knew
what it wanted–
to rub against her
to cut raw
what wasn’t
even ripe

He laid her
on the board
on the bed
They must be fed
They are starving
and growing

Tolerating the noise
his senseless sex
she shrinks
in my mind
flinching from
the pinch
the pressure
of his pleasure

Pulling the scabs
from her skin
she’d rather bleed out
than heal without a scar
she won’t be
the maiden martyr
the fruit on the
limbs of his whim

She won’t fast,
She hungers
for the flesh
from under his wing
She wants to make poultry
the muscles he used
the patriarchy
he shrouded her in

Unearthing the seeds they spilled
female fingers
plunge into
fertile ground
they check the bulb
they tender it now
and it smells of sweet meat
a sugary sustenance

pouring out from their cunts
onto tangled sheets
ink from inside
where he could not reach
Her signature is far from plain
for pleasure and pain
did not take his name

Higher Education – a poem by Cristina Dominguez

Class, today we will learn about legitimate jobs
that rob the lower masses from fruitful futures
and leave them haunted by a past, when unmasked
has the chills and sweats of oppression
in a land where healthcare means don’t get sick
unless you’re rich
and opportunity means
pull yourself up by the bootstraps on your bare-feet
and greet the pearly white gates of privilege

Class, I will also address the “other” and difference
but without thinking about the difference
it does but doesn’t make
pressed blue, lavender and pink collars
while we press our white columns together
shut them out
behind bars pushing drinks
behind bars in the clink
class c felons

Class, remember though, we live in the land of the free
Limitless choice and possibility
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of the almighty
dollar, dolor, puro amor
The sky is the limit
tray tables and seats in their
upright position
uptight position
like missionary
keep you safe from
restrained from
take off
and just before the curtains clothes
first class men remove their expensive coats
grab her ass and stare back
at the middle-middle class in coach
coached to look and long for the front as they step on the jet way
gangs of brown hands hold up
gangways walked by their ancestors put on vessels to this land of prosperity

Class, we won’t depart from lecture into discussion
we aren’t the Russians here
comments are for commies
I only want to hear
the answers in the back of the book I wrote, here
lets talk about arrivals, explorers
not conquistadors and slave trade ships
settlers who unsettled the original
aboriginal inhabitants
native tongues cut, sold, like cattle
only after we learned their trades
killed them with sickness and battles

Class, lets first take roll
“Here” she sat there
top of their class,
the Master’s mistress of facts
with her war-drobe lined up and locked up
behind a closet door
she knew the lay of the land and the law
Federal intern watching judges turn out sentences without thinking of the pretenses, tense in her seat in the court.
Plush curtains, waving flags, blunt oak masts and doors that shut out just enough light and life to keep it cold,
Colder than the plastic seats, rusty metal, smudged glass of the government homes of the lower class
her fear set free by their agency and her feminist thought

She sat in the offices defending her choices to guides: counselor professor
only from the outside can I get in
only from the outside can I get out

She found herself in a class teaching, on the beach teaching, in a bed teaching, and being taught about not reaching
Put her tongue to cunt to source, horse in her throat but wet mouthed, hungry, and wailing
Felt her nerves border on up surd and her anger rise like hurricane tides, the lies of west progressives red necked as the south where there at least their pistols gleam honestly ignorant.
Months ago, she laid in a bathtub too small to drown in, in bubbles, shambles and rubble but still threatening and trouble,
Now she jumps in between cracks, bulldozed laws, labels, categories,
Blood and gore and childhood stories devoured, sacrificing privilege and stealing power.
She drove, and drove, and drove mad, collected chaos and spread it on paper, in minds, hung on cactus and vine on the states dime

Class, today we will question everything
We will pull back the curtain
We will expose the Wizard
Stamp out the poppies with our bare feet, high off of illegitimate knowledge
Awaken and revive what is alive, we will expose lies
We will take out our books charred with dust, crusted with wine and blood
We will take off our clothes, close, naked, and writhing

Today we will FUCK
FUCK with the truth
until our laps are wet with ambiguity and fluidity

Dark Truth – a poem by Cristina Dominguez

I’m sleeping with the light on tonight
because there is a possibility of vulnerability,
A chance that I might
be haunted by the moment in my memory
where you caught me
between baby and young lady,
where you persuaded
and invaded
my privacy and vibrancy

You made me
give up my innocence
so you would play with me;
Pretending to know adult affection
just to gain your attention,
in fact it was a mere reflection
of what they show on TV.
Tuned out,
you pretended not to see me
I pretended not to be me–
where was your protection?

Now I write up a storm
to collect the debris
left from the memories
I try to forget,
from the secret I kept
to not see you publicly scorned
as I privately mourned
the death of the little girl
I buried in the place where I hid,
from you
from view
from what we did…

You ignored
how sore
you made my spirit.
You’d deny
You’d never hear it.
You call
I fall for it every time
like a nursery rhyme
or a lullaby.
Only this time,
I’ve learned that
all the king’s horses
and all the king’s men
only put us back together again
to break us in the end

Only I never fall asleep
not weeping,
I’m never spared
or prepared
to re-live
the nightmare
I shared with

22 years too late
three months after I leave,
No apology to date
and No reprieve,
Always something more you need
but I’m no giving tree
fruitless, rootless, call me ruthless.
I have no reservations
in being dedicated to the preservation
of the little girl still alive,
the one I revived not long ago.
I’ve recovered
and uncovered
the ways
you subjected me to
disrespect, rejection, and neglect,
a little girl
should never know

Aware but
not where
I can forgive
without apology;
without making you
raise your eyes
to see me
to meet me
the woman matured
out of what she
should have never had
to endure.
To see uncensored
how your venture
into masculinity,
your innocent, unintentional,
blameless curiosity
staked a claim
shamed and maimed
the terrain,
of my girlhood

The pain comes and goes,
lessens and grows,
the scars and bruises
sometimes show.
But I’ve survived
the red glare
of that nightmare
that I’ve lived

I let go of the light
fighting my body’s attempt to take flight
open my eyes and give
wrap myself in
what I was forced to find within
in the heart, that shelters her still
in the will that overcomes

I submit to the sharpness
of living
of feeling
of seeing
the ugly
that needs to be seen,
the scenes that make me cry,
where there is no insight in hindsight,
where purity of pain never lies–
but lies beside me
where peace is the instant when
sleep has forgiven me
gets up from the living room
comes to bed
and finally,
comforts me

Woman in the Moon – a poem by Cristina Dominguez

this is
the cost of contact

the night
the light

reflect off

sinking vanquished
into the
drunken darkness
the dead alive
cold, clinical
as a spec
a second

without self
a lap
a distraction

watch woman
over a live

I can’t even let you reach me
my breath
is too a mere reflection
inflection of life

someday so will the
rest of my all too
conscious unconscious
a peace
a sleep
so sweet
so secure
but will my spirit
be splattered across the darkness of life
out of body
my own light

dividing is surviving
splintered better that than
withering away

pulling the tides in
or are they
pulling at me
under toe
sucking at
heart beat

can you
crash into me
but like old oceans?
This time
don’t leave me
in side

hardly worth
difficult discovery

knocking off of the bergs
black bird down on the ground
my brains
my veins

take from me
what little life
hope—by some chance love

there is nothing
worth having
but the pull
is beyond will
the still now peaceful
let me rock
in your vision
deaf to my cries
what ifs
and whys

in the morning
will hide me
but I will
be the brightest patch
in the sky
and appear before
the dramatic colors
I used to know
as she enters an empirical scorching sleep
the demise where I rise

color blind
one day you can still
find me
with misery

at times but
at others
the ordinary
toward risk

But not
for the responsibility
of wisdom
of woman in the moon

I, swallow, I am swollen
with loss
and lost in your light
but grounded rooted,
bold bulb,

feel my pull
my will
that endures
even under
ordered sleep
months of weeping
quiet intensity
deep in the
battle wounds
conquered and abandoned
wore torn
left of me

Right Before Frostbite – a poem by Cristina Dominguez

In the cold
I can
the hole in my
where they drilled
with steal
to recreate
what had been broken

In the cold
I can feel
my way
right through
and it’s painful
but I’m forced to be near it
to keep warm

In the heat
we’re released
from our weakness
run through denial
like a sprinkler in
but in the cold
in winter
when heat is a
in the cold
there is
a moment
and right
before we’re numb
what we feel
is real

You taught me
that even when I’m reeling
writhing in the sharp
suffering of my shortcomings
that in falling I went further
than I was before
you taught me not
to store
my strength
not to
score or rank
myself amongst the
not to grieve
what I’ve lost
or the casts that
I’ve paid in my efforts to
not to think or act
in strength
in vain

Plain and simple
here, near to the parts of me
misnamed as ugly
my dignified delicate delicacies
that are no more fragile than
they are fancy
being weak
is the courage to speak
through the
survival as synonymous
with strength

is the ability
to feel and be
in fear
without worrying if someone will

in the coldness of the world
there can be the boldness of a will
of one who doesn’t sell out
for the thrill
of being inspiring

but one who basks
in the glow
of her flame
burning low
of the wind
she faces
that almost erases her

you taught me
how beautiful and true
how little they knew
of living and dying
of surviving and thriving

cascading down a
window that
has seen more rain
now that I’m here
than it has in years
are our tears

isn’t sailing
from control

if we are lucky
it is
life is
letting go
but feeling
but being
while we let go

White Lillies – a poem by Cristina Dominguez

white lilies
in my room

but not
the only
glowing in
the narrow sliver
of the moonlight
from my window

I can feel them
even if I keep my eyes shut
they are painfully waiting
to forgive that I’ve
cut them down
kept them with me
leave them every day
and have dared
to return
to apologize
to love them

and I’m
witness to
their life
a wife
will hold them
in her hair
or her hands
they will bear all
but won’t be
as painfully
as they are to me
though they are

into the ruin
of my well-organized
room in my living
the vulnerability
so vivid
in my strength

I pull the label
off my beer
I don’t want the petals
to ever fall
on another bed
I don’t want a bed of
to rise
or cover me
they are suffocating
not invigorating
like white lilies

they are near
but so far away
they are here
but above
looking down
not with pity
or shame
but pain
they have full reign
of my thoughts
and have always had my heart
and I rain
with my sorrow
with my hope
with my love

I never wanted
to collect
or wreck them

just starting
to warm up here
I hope the heat
from my hell
that makes my small
swell up
at least my eyes might
match my thighs
this way

they sway
swish in the
brown bottle
a swig
a swallow
I swear
I can see
they are breathing
letting go
but I don’t know
if they are
letting me in

Monster – a poem by Cristina Dominguez

I’m learning more and more
the space between each l e t t e r
now further apart with you,
now that I’m a part of you,
they aren’t even near
they can’t touch the meaning
inside and around them

they are leaning
trying to see
to understand
to hear in their own echo
the purpose,
the beautiful curse,
that found them first…

usually the story starts
and finds the beauty,
lying in the darkness,
the kind that no one saw
there all along
the hidden familiar
the meant to be
created reality
a meaningless song
that only has meaning
because it has been repeated
for far too long

those stories miss
the perfections in the flaws,
the inflections of light
that live in a darkness
so dense
so permanent in presence
so pregnant with heart-wrenching potential
that sight can’t find them,
our eyes can’t see them,
only once
they give up trying,
close and closed
they open up,
they erupt
and cry
tears breaking
their seals
and lost again

what no one knows
you’ll learn there
white lies
fairy tales
are blinding
and binding

the monster
is a princess
who thinks
who feels
who wants

the monster
is the princess
that is real

the webs we weave
don’t tap into
a tapestry of harmony

but tangled
contorted and tortured
I’m wrapped
in the craft
in the work
that taught me my worth

I’m sleeping
in the clouds
that clear my mind

The nightmare
that we share
is a dream
in the darkness
not ready
to be seen

won’t regret
won’t white wash
sugar coat
or paint over
the pain I feel
the pain
the stir

behind my eyes
behind my lies
the intensity
that keeps me
from staying
in line

stray with me
fall into the spaces
the cracks
and ruins
where what is right
is what feels right

tread in trouble
with me
be buried
in the art
of my arteries

I’m the dragon that guards
the haunted castle
because I know
how the light
and mistakes
the shapes
that lay
the mystery

not ready yet
wait with me
take me back
to where
I never knew
I could start again
to where
I don’t
have to begin

Nothing about
the darkness
goes against
my will

Terror is
the way
they keep you still

you’re circulating
and cultivating
we’re waiting…

happily ever after
means there is a place
where risk and danger
are endangered
where life becomes monotony

the complexity
and endlessness of the dark
unrests me

I forever want to be
the monster
they make of me

Fearful of a free love – a poem by Cristina Dominguez

Alone with myself
alone with thoughts of you,
dreams that we might pursue
the metaphor that is something more

Do you have plans in store for me?
Something locked away?
Will I, can I, find the key?
Or are you just as lost in this feeling
as I am, and finding me
only out of your desperate need
to not be the lone and forlorn refugee

Spontaneity craving
the all too unsurprising predictability
that I do not have the ability to willingly
conjure up, for your fearful gut that undermines
your revolutionary desires
the very thing that inspires
this all new, unconventional concoction
of love in me

Stagnant in your opposition to compromise
but positioned to compose around
something safe and sound
that I can’t be

Why can’t we both remain wild and free?
Liberty meets love, and lives in it liberally
instead of denying and dying
the part that defies a love that’s limiting.
Packed away are my overt attempts to
create and break free that love within me.
But will that love be too different
too strange to move your eyes to see
The love I know you have for me?

It isn’t easy
It isn’t what you need to satisfy and pacify your fears
Ready to challenge me but you stay
securely still in your stubborn habit
of thirsting for security

I won’t be part of the assembly line of lovers
replacing the past
enslaving myself to your repetitive defense mechanisms
that mass produced flat and failed relationships

The dimensions we’ve mentioned
philosophically talking with the top down in your cool convertible
free and versatile
in thought, in mind, in spirit.
But though you can hear it
you can’t take to heart
the part that would free
your heart

You aren’t fearful of who would leave you
but frightened by what it would mean if someone would stay~
Would sway in the wind and the water that is you,
flowing in a stream to a stream of consciousness
as wide eyed and open as the ocean
Not hindered by the currents currently claiming
calming and inhibiting
the independent spirit
in an uninhabitable love

That body of water
that body of love
a mirror reflecting–
how you won’t
how you refuse
to look
to see
the you, you love sufficiently
for you have efficiently
not let it be tied down
but do not love enough to embrace fully..
to let it be lifted up
to give up,
not surrendering
but rendering
it free.

Let your expectations
like their limitations
be obsolete.
You’re wading in a pool of your own possibility
I’m waiting for you to dive into
the depths of our opportunity.
There will be no death of you or me,
we can coexist in this discovery
you can feel it
now believe it
you can be free
in loving me

Friendly Fire – a poem 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

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