Poetry by Samantha Moya

   Cristian Bortes CC





Neon Park 

I. 
Instinctually she  makes  herself  as  small  as  possible; not  necessarily a
fear of being  seen,  but  something  deeper and  grimier, a  perception of
being a  person,  one  of  those  living  feeling  sentient things  with needs
and wants,  horrid,  horrid  wants.  She  gazes  into  spider-webbed  glass
and hopes to find a stunted inner child. She gets lost there. 

II.
When does exposure  therapy  begin  to  work?   She  asked  because  she
was constantly thrown into the deep end of the pool, but to this  day  the
water holds intangible terrors all the  same.  The  terrors  play  out  as  an
experimental horror film on the  body,  shrieks  like  banshee,  silence  like
the grasslands, blood like fine wine on the white  carpet,  nails  scratching
linoleum.  The   thud  of   a   head  on   the   floor.   Exposure   therapy,   the
scientific theory of "I don't know, people just get used to it eventually."

III.
When  she  travels back  to  the  ocean,  I remind  her  that  we  behold its
majesty  because  we can't fathom its end in  any direction.  I imagine the
deepest parts of it where the light will never reach, and I remark that it's
beautiful, comforting even, that God himself cannot reach some places.

IV.
Tell me what you love the most, and I will tell you how to destroy it. 

V. 
Dust  settles.  Neon  signs  come  down   as  the   Old  West   is  built  over.
There's a lot to not recognize anymore. The  world  shakes  off  dead  skin
while we're sleeping. It's hard to pay attention for  very  long.  It  happens
while we make ourselves small.

VI. 
But I put my faith in  porch  swings  and  our  hearty  dinners,  I  celebrate
the end of a day by living in  the  world  as  it  is,  and not  as  it  should  be.
It's time we shed  our  own  bodies  like  tarantulas,  so  casually  stepping
outside of ourselves, like the earthly creatures we fear.





Spring, 2022

On  this,  the 23rd day of the month, we  spoke  little of  anything that
really  mattered  — instead,  we  had  a  conversation  about  your  old
recipe  for  millionaire  pie,  my fondness  for collecting  coasters, how
the  motel  comforter  itches,  how  I'd    smear  beefaroni  all  ove   my
highchair.  And  this  brevity,  it  incinerates  like  a   manuscript  in the
fireplace.  There’s  a  beauty  in  a détente  that  we’re  well-aware will
not last. We wished for  imperviousness,  more  conversations a bout
pie,     punctuated   with   light        laughter   down   the    signal.    Your
possessions,    everything   about   you that  is  worldly,  are  locked  in
storage,   and   everyone    has   long   stopped  listening   to  your  tiny
violin. You created rifts so  deep  that  your  ancestors  in hell worked
their   way  up  to   the   earth’s    surface,    back  into  your   life.  But  I
remain, a  stubborn   animal,  and  our  combined  breath  tastes stale,
feels dry, a  saltine  challenge.  We  don't  have  a  price  point,  but our
oral traditions are bartered  for,  buried, sitting  under our fingernails
with the rest   of our  regrets. My  hands  don't  hold  water  anymore,
not   even  for  a  few  seconds. Your  skin,    it's  crisp,  but  not  like  an
October morning. I  can  no  longer sit  with my  back to the door,  just
like  you   haven't  slept    in  years.  That  shared  lump in  our   throats
never  retreats,    and   our   twin   scars    just   blend   nicely   to   their
home. Today I'm relearning some watercolor techniques, creating an
impression  of   something  I  both  barely  remember  and  can't  stop
thinking about. You  don't  live  by  the  tracks,  but  nevertheless,  the
whistle   of  a  train  woke  you  up  this  morning.  I  reflected  on  how
that seems like  a  disturbance  from  a  bygone  time.  You  never  left
that small railroad town.





​Interholidays

a pause, call it Boxing Day lull, the limbo between parties. we retreat a bit, staying warm, attempting to stay occupied, thinking nonchalantly about everything, the ache in our lower backs, crisp beer, purging the basement clutter, seasonal suicide, counting loved ones present and loved ones lost – it’s the only kind of math that becomes useful over time, a party trick, an elegy.

but somehow the world bustles and stands still simultaneously, the air, simply candle smoke, and you remember last night’s feeling— the feeling at 11pm during a party that started four hours ago, somehow the liquor is still hitting, but some are finding the door, some are too far gone to know, and it’s beginning to feel like the same old stories are being told, but you, you are not ready to leave, not just yet, it was “one more” three one-mores ago, time stop. 

and others curl up with no company at all, inventing myths and legends about this time of year, maybe even about this life, their life, the deliriousness of the hour, the debauchery of the whole season, consumer waste, how the retail hours buzz, fixing up the last of the egg nog and rum to sit in a quiet corner, a spectator.

so as they do, late nights fade into lazy mornings, and lazy mornings fade into a brooding afternoon, and into orange early evenings and an ambivalent 9pm, nothing to occupy the mind but a protruding guilt, a sweat sheen of shame. 

eventually the tree in the corner will become firewood, because the calendar breathes its last and all twinkling lights twinkle less over time and we swap pine scents for fresh starts, muttering to ourselves: Well, what now?

​


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Samantha Moya is a data specialist with a Ph.D. in Political Science from the University of Colorado Boulder. She does her own writing and arts on the side. Her work has been featured in Serotonin Poetry, The Raven Review, Epoch Press, Tension Literary, and The Poetry Question. She is originally from Albuquerque, New Mexico and currently resides in Denver, Colorado with her husband and two dogs. She can be found at Twitter/X and Instagram @samanthalmoya.