Issue > Poetry
Jose Angel Araguz

Jose Angel Araguz

Jose Angel Araguz has had work most recently in Barrow Street, Gulf Coast, Slipstream, and Right Hand Pointing. His chapbook, The Wall, is published by Tiger's Eye Press. He is presently pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Cincinnati.

Fixing

Summer afternoon, fixing to storm.

I can almost hear the hands adjusting the clouds,
fingers fastening each drop
to its line of air.

When I pluck a blade of grass and twist it
between my fingers,

a smell rises,
clean, clandestine.

I begin to feel I am being watched.

I look around and hear only the heat
under the dark clouds
crackle.

Where It Was Dark

You could hear the trees
when I brushed my hair,

in each downward stroke
cypresses.

My child once asked if she could hide there
during a storm,

that the color was darker
than when she hid under the bed,

said that where it was dark
nothing was there.

Now where my hair once was
short strands
bow.

I see them in the mirror.

Behind me,
dark figures

slack,     
crouch—

pray,
pray.

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