"Empty Bottles" by Sebastián Moya
Photo by Clairette D.G. (@clairettedg)
Bookshelf Buddhists resent attachments
feigning a love for white walls.
Anarchists break wine bottles
over reinforced glass.
Americans rate ounces
to the dollar.
I've recognized my tendency,
cultor of the distancing fields
we know it happened
green shards are trading cards.
my collection includes
dissertations on the loneliness of Paris.
in Tuileries gardens,
the immense buildings they despised
considering the best bacon baguette
I'd had to that day.
amongst millions of descendants,
knowing not a shadow
to share its crispness with.
I could only regret you weren't there,
whoever you are.
cursing these empty bottles
with the same reflection.
I decided it wasn't for fate or some shit,
But that maybe the Andes have a brutal magic.
I learned about the snow
and that they could shut down the pass to Santiago.
But I was just a wildebeest
tugging at light poles
then caught in her arms.
she was a student of war crimes,
we discussed Sinaloa and the Hague
over Bali Shag and purple gallons.
she asked how we could change it:
my only intentions were in
having known her when she did.
when you had a bus to catch
I insisted I'd make it snow,
that the mountain path would be shut
and Pinochet's wake
would still be waiting.
we kissed at dawn
then those madrugada flakes
fell on her face.
later, when night came again
she woke me up with cigarette coughs
and told me it only needed to exist then
no facebook, no letters
by the fallibility of extension
but that she'd treasure it,
glass passed to grandchildren
more precious than dinnerware.
useful for two now and again.
And when she dies,
may it be long from now,
she said it wouldn't be the first thing on her mind
but it might make the cut.
but then it'll be gone,
because she'll certainly outlive me
but that's what makes it marvelous
I thought about how Buddhists don't think
and how Anarchists wouldn't have time to remember,
and how Americans would put a price on the extra nights in the hostel.
I pity their collection.
Sebastián Moya is a poet and a writer of fiction. He was raised between El Paso, TX and Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua and graduated with a degree in Narrative Structure from the University of Southern California. Most of the time, he is bustling between Los Angeles and the Borderland, delivering harina tortillas to his gringo friends and weed to his Mexa friends.