Two poems by Valentina Cano

Sun

What I feel is a skinning.

Peeling of gossamer veils,

rivulets of lace

collapsing to the floor

with every second

in front of you.

Like the sun,

you kill me in layers.

And when the world dims

and night with its moon and its water

rises above it all,

I’m left in pieces.

My shredded memories

writhing in foam.

Blind

A face twists in front of me.

Someone I knew

turning into an open doorway,

a pane-less window,

an open drain.

I watch, but my eyes unstitch themselves

from the rest of my body

to follow that face,

though I’ll never see it again.

Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Web and the Pushcart Prize and her works have appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals, A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, and more. 

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