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| Uploaded: | 2021-10-26 |
| Last sync: | 2025-05-09 06:00 |
John-Francis Quiñonez (they/them/theirs) reads their poem, “Re: Watching You Without Me.”
John-Francis Quiñonez:
https://twitter.com/Q_Buckaroo
https://www.instagram.com/q_buckaroo
https://www.johnfrancisquinonez.com
Brought to you by Complexly, The Poetry Foundation, and curators Charlotte Abotsi and Sarah Kay. Learn more: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/
11 issues of Poetry, subscribe today for $20: https://poetrymagazine.org/OursPoetica
Follow us elsewhere for the full Ours Poetica experience:
https://twitter.com/ourspoeticashow
https://instagram.com/ourspoeticashow
#poetry #ourspoetica #JohnFrancisQuiñonez
John-Francis Quiñonez:
https://twitter.com/Q_Buckaroo
https://www.instagram.com/q_buckaroo
https://www.johnfrancisquinonez.com
Brought to you by Complexly, The Poetry Foundation, and curators Charlotte Abotsi and Sarah Kay. Learn more: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/
11 issues of Poetry, subscribe today for $20: https://poetrymagazine.org/OursPoetica
Follow us elsewhere for the full Ours Poetica experience:
https://twitter.com/ourspoeticashow
https://instagram.com/ourspoeticashow
#poetry #ourspoetica #JohnFrancisQuiñonez
My name is John-Francis Quiñonez.
I'm an artist and writer. This poem is from a in-progress collection of poems after Kate Bush's Hounds of Love.
I don't claim to be relatable. [LAUGHS] It's called, "
Re: Watching You Without Me," and it's about grappling with distance from a loved one who is non-verbal. It's for my sister Caitlin Maria Quiñonez. I wish you could say to me what you would when the arm of my mistful river reaches you (with tiny palms open). In the dream you say I am seeing you as he might to a shell pluck thoughtfully from the glimmer.
Skipping stones curl to cut my rough and changing jaw (small fingers). I fear most that you only sense a change in me. You know me deeper than anyone / Do you?/ Do you like my haircut or does it scare you as much as I am scared of it?/ You can tell me that you don't know my face today/ I don't know/ I do not/ You can tell me/ You can tell I don't know what to do watching you
without me, quiet sister.
I don't. Thumbtacks keep your dreams from curling off my purple walls. Faces with open arms/ bright wax circles on circles - speak lift your chin up to me.
When they become too precious - I do not see them. They sleep in a box until they rise like clouds fresh from under pillows. Can you know the lengths to which I keep your little lights alive or is that just a pearl for pockets?
I have this photo of Maria in the beam of Caitlin's smile and I wonder if what makes a treasure, a treasure is the box you put it in. Call today - a video. Your face - bracketed and then soon gone.
What do you keep in your quiet? My stomach hurts and I can't sleep not knowing if this heavies you/ Can you still pinch flightful things from the air with just your fingers (how)?/ how do you soft this unsoaring?/ take a fluttering thing from the still - a treasure torn from its miracle sibling. Tell me.
Am I as dark as a box beneath the bed? Do you know what an us sounded like before you safed it?/ buried somewhere without language. I am certain I could look,
but how can we talk about this forever?
I'm an artist and writer. This poem is from a in-progress collection of poems after Kate Bush's Hounds of Love.
I don't claim to be relatable. [LAUGHS] It's called, "
Re: Watching You Without Me," and it's about grappling with distance from a loved one who is non-verbal. It's for my sister Caitlin Maria Quiñonez. I wish you could say to me what you would when the arm of my mistful river reaches you (with tiny palms open). In the dream you say I am seeing you as he might to a shell pluck thoughtfully from the glimmer.
Skipping stones curl to cut my rough and changing jaw (small fingers). I fear most that you only sense a change in me. You know me deeper than anyone / Do you?/ Do you like my haircut or does it scare you as much as I am scared of it?/ You can tell me that you don't know my face today/ I don't know/ I do not/ You can tell me/ You can tell I don't know what to do watching you
without me, quiet sister.
I don't. Thumbtacks keep your dreams from curling off my purple walls. Faces with open arms/ bright wax circles on circles - speak lift your chin up to me.
When they become too precious - I do not see them. They sleep in a box until they rise like clouds fresh from under pillows. Can you know the lengths to which I keep your little lights alive or is that just a pearl for pockets?
I have this photo of Maria in the beam of Caitlin's smile and I wonder if what makes a treasure, a treasure is the box you put it in. Call today - a video. Your face - bracketed and then soon gone.
What do you keep in your quiet? My stomach hurts and I can't sleep not knowing if this heavies you/ Can you still pinch flightful things from the air with just your fingers (how)?/ how do you soft this unsoaring?/ take a fluttering thing from the still - a treasure torn from its miracle sibling. Tell me.
Am I as dark as a box beneath the bed? Do you know what an us sounded like before you safed it?/ buried somewhere without language. I am certain I could look,
but how can we talk about this forever?