Poetry by Amy Shimshon-Santo

          Mayastar CC




​All the Things (He Never Said)

1.
zenith television torso
old carts and boxes
something died here. loitering

things he would not throw out
carpeted his skin with lumps and splotches
I pressed down on my jugular vein

to stop my heart from speaking
his fishhook acknowledgement
wasn’t enough to plug the rickety raft

my fat eyelids sank first in the salt water
then his ribcage. mildewed
hammered from doors. shut

I sat across from a different man’s torso
listening. watched him bob up and down
in all the things he’d never said

2.
when we split the deadwood
I posted a picture of him smiling

on Instagram. zoomed in. content.
I wanted it archived there as evidence

glistening eyes. deep satisfaction
that joy happened, days before

our continents broke
and all his silence came spilling out

3.
I buried our blueprints
beneath the mattress
so no one else could see

a storm raged quietly
inside my head. my chest
shook the windows and doors

lifeless dreams filled with wind
rippled on mangled trees
I watched them sway. Ghosts

slow sorrow came knocking
hungry for my flesh. it wanted proof
to fill disappointments mouth-hole

reeds swished aside
a whittled wooden figure fell out
landing hard on the floor — conclusion

4.

I don’t have words for reappearance
so I study the art of open hands

moonlight melts inside
I’m a splinter in a crowded box

of teeth. departures leave you naked
babbling with shadows

I peel open an orange from the garden
and it bleeds all over my hands




Piñata (Effigy)

the heart’s soft center
dark pool of night. stench-wood
longing. my body still tender
melting. secular time:
after his disappearance

in the dappled shade
of a spider gum tree. I clutch
a long wooden stick
head coiled into my chest
heaving breath. I want
to whack something
but there’s no target
no aim to take. the flimsy

toy dangles. inanimate effigy
it’s form spread open
like the feathers of a dead raptor
heavy paper mache carcass
circles round-and-round
on its rope. belly emptied
hard candy spilled. insects
will come gather it up. invade
their paper wrappers

the remains of a celebration. quiet
destruction. punched in piñata. struck
hard. bam-bop-bam-bop-bam
busted-open with a bat
loose candy strewn on the dirt
guests long gone. only entrails
no children to scatter and hunt for sugar

call the vultures. I’ll be here
waiting by the spinning rope
shooing away hummingbirds
beneath its silent branches

when we split. the world
sent my body 23,701 miles away
to be. see other worlds
I returned to a graveyard
of a former life. got down
on my hands and knees
with a small paper bag
and scraped the earth for sweetness




What’s Time Anyway?

Your mornings are someone else’s night
shifting along the circumference of the globe
Our belief in time is made of air, a cloud
of condensed water vapor
that won’t hold your weight.
If time is a made up thing, how can I unlatch
myself from it? So basic. I wake
and ask, what time is it?
When I sleep, Is it time for bed?

Time is a kind of pottery, made of earth
and hubris, that will break. First of my family,
born in LA a place where Simon Rodia
built mosaic towers from broken dishes
he collected from his neighbors
Then he buried his car beneath house,
and made a cement ship that would never sail
back home to Italy without an earthquake
We try to be here and with our ancestors
at the same time

I tell the next generation, time is real
These times are yours. In other words, I lie
And for good reason. I want there to be a future
My children bang a drum and paint the walls yellow
They believe in time. I’ll never say a word otherwise
However powerless we may feel. We are it
The future’s only hope.

I wonder what the future thinks of us
our destructive, polluting habits
Foolish children, grown into stories
I’ve read books by people who are dead
Books, leftover stuff, like my dad’s suspenders
or his polka dot bow tie I can’t find. But I see him
in the mirror. His face in mine. My face becoming his

Now that I’m in mid-life, I no longer believe
in leaving a mark. I understand that I am
an accidental accumulation. Cumulonimbus

The answers may lie in the smallest things
Things I’ve overheard. Witnessed. Instigated
An inspirational glance. You were a dancer
I remind myself. Flow. You know how to move
off balance. I let go

Amy Shimshon-Santo is a poly-lingual poet and essayist with immediate family on three continents. She’s been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in creative non-fiction (2017), Best of the Net in poetry (2018), and was recognized on the National Honor Roll for Service Learning. Her poetry collection Even the Milky Way is Undocumented is forthcoming with Unsolicited Press (2020). You can read her poetry Yes Poetry, Zócalo Public Square, Anti-Heroin Chic, Lady Liberty Lit, Awkward Mermaid Lit Mag, Rag Queen Periodical, Rose Quartz Journal, Full Blede, Spectrum, and her essays in SAGE Publications, Entropy, Public, Tiferet Journal, UC Press, SUNY Press, and Critical Planning Journal. 

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