About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write. Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground. Kiya's gift. I love it!
The Junk I Carry
The last time I saw him,
I hid behind
the large plaid ruffles
of Altagracia’s skirt.

So tiny was I,
he couldn’t spot me.
                    ”Wanna see your daughter?”
                   ”I don’t need to. Just give me my things.”


His words are the ice in my drinks,
the rocks I crash on,
“his things,” the junk I carry
like a bag-lady,
his smell, “Old Spice”
with an undertow that never lets me swim,
his rage, “Mama” --or was it I?--
I'll never know.

Winding roads,
winding years,
winding the last drops of unshed tears
to erase the delusions
of his face
floating in my dreams,
just because
the last time I saw him,
I lost him.








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