by Val Dering Rojas

So this is what we amount to:
a commonplace silence
and a damage that is spectacular,
the Santa Ana fueling
an obscene dawn.
Say we awoke
to the awareness
of our teeth
inside our skulls
inside our skin,
how every burning blue oak
distills to ash-leaf, 
how nature's intuition
provides for flight—
to say that there is nothing left
of us would be a lie,
but what to call everything else,
except omission? 
Right now, 100-degree heat,
and our universe is glowing.
My instinct is never reliable:
the bitter cherry
undressing
until the bitter end.
The most beautiful skies
are made from disaster,
and here I am.

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Val Dering Rojas is a Los Angeles-based poet and artist who has also studied addiction and recovery counseling and psychology. Her poetry and short fiction have appeared in The Rumpus, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and Right Hand Pointing, among others. Val is also the author of the chapbooks Ten (dancing girl press) and Waspfish (glass lyre press).