BIO
Clayre Benzadón was born in Miami, Florida and is currently a senior at Brandeis University majoring in Psychology and Creative Writing. She is currently one of the editor-in-chiefs for Laurel Moon, the school's oldest literary magazine, and has been published by the Merrimack Review, Triadae Magazine, A Literation, Baer Books Press's poetry anthology titled Silver Linings-Poets Against Violence and Transcending Shadows Review.
Horchata
Moonshine
originally published in Laurel Moon
spills
into the village of
La
Aldehuela, a silver
river
of whitewashed
buildings below the milk-
drunk
Ávila galaxy:
La Via Láctea.
My
dad points to the stars,
outlines
them with chalky
atmosphere:
Captura todo
lo que
reluce.
Capture
everything that glistens:
the
celestial incandescence.
Earthshine
of the crescent moon.
The
lunar ray’s refraction, melted
against
my glass of horchata.
Two
days ago, in the clear glint
of
the Caballeruelos River, my body
became
a watercolor, exposed under
the
stream’s embers. Papá roared:
Pecadora
lengua de la mala mujer
The sinful
tongue of the bad women:
don’t
undress yourself in public like
that,
you’renot allowed to glow (grow) (go)!
Yesterday,
I held the cup up towards
the
indigo flames of the Queimada
nebula
and chanted along with the
alcoholic
blaze burning witchcraft:
espíritus
de las nevadas llanuras.
Even
spirits of the snowy plains
from
this town observe the cloudy
residue
of my childhood gradually
become
trapped biolumiscence.
Fuerzas de
aire, tierra, mar y fuego:
forces of
air, earth, sea and fire.
I
am a spark of constellation bottled
up in a glass flask of fireflies.
Levantaré
las llamas
de este
infierno
como fuego:
I’ll raise
the hell-ridden
flames of
this fire
and combust.
The Raw Yes
Tell
me what
the
correct yes
means.
Is
it the silk of skin
slipping
through my
tongue,
wrung with
fuck as you
suck me,
wholly fed,
is
it me singing
for
my bedded thirst,
the
taste of a shared,
swallowed
utterance,
lengua-
je gemido,
my
dare to live
as
a woman of many hearts,
with
a big-noised, roasted
core
of an artichoke dripping
butter,
kneeling and pushing
on
top, while I sip on
the
stems of your flower,
a
sore rose?
I
never not want.
Soy la maga de tus sueños,
deseo comer,
more, come
here, delightful
refreshment,
pura, dura, let me eat
you
raw, entirely.