TWO POEMS by Oliver de la Paz
Diaspora Sonnet 40
So much improvisation—the improvised way
I enter a room. The way I walk market aisles:
with purpose borne of worry. The tumult of cereal
packages, an array of landscapes crossed over
in a plane. I am flying above the patchwork of
mornings and feeling dizzy. Truly I am
making this up as I stay here. Morning into morning
into the next. Consecutive tiles worrying themselves
into the shape of purpose. I can’t tell you why
we boarded a plane many years past except
to say the plane was there and we needed another
“there.” I can’t tell you much about flying then except
that I was nauseous. Disorientation is its own
improvisation. A mind spins until it finds its foci.
Diaspora Sonnet 41
The word “home,” ensnared with thorns.
Gored by. A resident ache in the back
of my mouth. At any moment a shock
from teeth to the skull to say it. I’ll not
dwell too long in the angular and persistent
knife. What strikes me is how long I’ve held
my tongue back with incisors. Far too many
unsayable residences. Too much factual
want. In speaking, the balletic turn of
phrase to kindred who’ve not the common
language. Our regard for each other, stuck
in long pauses. Milliseconds into multitudinous
gazes. The sticky-notes pasted over this and that,
like “refrigerator,” “bed,” “brush,” and “door.”