Re: Cloudbusting
John-Francis Quiñonez
“The idea of a Sunflower is the only thing about
A Sunflower that glows in the dark”
– Eric Dovigi
I sit to put on my Boots – Daydreaming on the same
corner you used to rest till we slept, & I swear the
slope of my bed – a whole coast away indents to
mirror your weight / The whole of your stories,
unfinished // Soft fairytales –The nature of the vast
between us
is Folkloric – exists in Joy, but the absence of is
Brass-Clad. Stone-Boney. Crushes me like I am the last
whisper of Marigold under
the Iron-cool Shadow
of a Thunderstorm.
When my hair was long / curly night & fire
you used to tell me I was Beautiful like a
musketeer. & still when I shaved it all off.
& still. Not knowing this is all I wanted to be to anyone,
lamenting all the long dresses and satin I threw away to live here with you to keep
dry of your salt rain.
1942 Willhelm Reich builds a Machine for
producing rainclouds before he is abducted in front of his son. Left a
cloudbuster without a master & the Magic of the thing leaves with the
absence of its Dreamer
2016. 2017. 2018. They say Tired, Blood Sugar, Dementia,
Family, Alzheimers & now my memory of your stories is
desperate
& the wonders of my heart seems a quiet story to an empty bed.
I think so often of your wide range
of Yarns to spin & worry
to what end,
time unwinds
You.
I look still in shock at
the empty gaps in my closet staring back at me like the blue between clouds woven & torn apart
in jagged monument – & think it must be miles more than we can even see – Between these
known places to rest. To what end do I tell you of this Queer /
When I fear more of my heart will leave with you, Pues Mida All trans
bodies tearing through the white satin // Ocean Whisper
hand in hand
on leaving // Cloudbusters with no hand at the
wheel
& can’t you see my shape among them? Mida! Pues, I
think to call
and tell you everything again // Gift to you
my new name, and be beautiful still // the glow of
a story after the life of its teller, But I sit on the edge of the bed and hang my mouth open
Quiet as the waiting Earth before the Water Drops.
about the writer
John-Francis Quiñonez is a Desert Flower & Current Resident of Providence, Educator, Provider of Accessible Aide as Your Queer Mawm, and Poet. Truly just a Queer, Latinx Wild Thing on the Hunt for Candy almost Always. Has a handful of Poems in Maps for Teeth, Yellow Chair Review, Voicemail Poems, Drunk in a Midnight Choir, and Pigeon Pages. Is trying their best not to talk too much about Rock and Roll or Fruit Bats, but Promises Nothing.