Born and raised in rural Nevada, Rachel Ronquillo Gray is a Kundiman, Pink Door, and VONA fellow. Her work appears in Tinderbox Poetry, Hyphen Magazine, Tahoma Literary Review, Digging Through the Fat, Radar Poetry, Winter Tangerine Review, and other places. She currently lives, writes, and makes food in Bloomington, Indiana.
I want to kill off my desires, or they will haunt
me, a horizon of yellow moons sagging
with want. & I want so much: brooding tide,
cave echo, dirt starlit road, open mouth kiss,
hand fisted in tangles. Sometimes, a moon
is just a moon. An eclipse is just an eclipse,
not light reversed. Sometimes, light doesn’t
reveal anything, but blinds us. South of my mouth,
some say I am like the moon, full of light
and meaning and life that I never wanted.
Sometimes, a womb is just a womb. Why
can’t I be just a girl, mostly blood & salt,
obsidian & air. Isn’t that life anyway.