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-from the French form of the Germanic name Adalheidis, which was composed of the elements adal "noble" and heid "kind, sort, type".

 

 

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POETRY

christina borgoyn

CHRISTINA BORGOYN / LETTERHEAD

Christina Borgoyn lives in the Baltimore area. She graduated from University Maryland University College in 2012 with a BA in English Literature. Her first book of poetry November Poems was published in December of 2013 and is available through Amazon.com. She currently works for the state government while trying to complete her second poetry manuscript.

smoke-filled

clinging breath, they will see me
in red plaid jacket, thumb holes,
the cold infringing upon this winter
puff of smoke slowly fill the air
can't take any more into lungs
I will fight, and eternally lose
fading dusk spreads over
the far, distant valley,
seeping into bones, a remembrance
called spring, though dead in
January, the long weeks drag on,
pockets full to bursting of
lighters and keys and notes and things,
backpack hidden beyond rugged shoulders,
the entire earth carries the weight
of itself into the night, though
quiet, I lose all sense of myself
through the words, verbs, sentences,
prying apart nouns that make no more
sense to deaf ears, I walk away
into sunset, betraying every
thought I'd ever have, a morsel
to bargain with, a dream you can't have.

 

survivor

I am no longer a warrior
with hunting arrows in my quiver
the smell of meat brings bile
to these vile lips that I taste,
taints the lineage drawn across
the centuries, I have everything
that I own strapped to the small
of my back, bending beneath
the burden's weight, never will
let these shoulders rest as
I gaze out upon the horizon,
sun cresting just below
the far mountain ridge I am
headed towards, this land yearns
no longer for me, it is red
and dripping dust in its outcroppings,
follow the freshwater stream
that runs far from this deserted place.
The babe sits dull and quiet
inside of me, no longer moving,
its tiny heart fluttering now inside mine;
stopping only once to freshen my tongue,
for out there, somewhere, something
calls to me back from the time I was young,
a memory scantily surfaces in membrane,
audible, coherent, growing stronger
till it is undeniable, unmistakable,
the rivers I cross are closer than I imagined
as I never let this body rest,
stone arrows drawing blood forth from
hands scattered out towards stars,
blood a fortune, yes, a treasure I weep
to my kin, stumbling after me
when the winter settles in these aching ribs.

 

pause

pause, grape halfway to mouth
spirit hovers somewhere nearby
through the open window, spring
drifts into summer, late moon
blooming, the rains come again
drenching benches and patios,
skinning the backs of my knees
against the pine tree you refuse
to cut down, let alone prune,
drifting, sometimes searching
cool skin to the touch, against
mine, now I'm yearning for
something to go after, to taste
like the acrid smoke filling
the room after we made our love
known to the shadows scarred on
wallpaper that peels and escorts
you from me once I've fallen
way head over heels for and back.

 

clean laundry

we left our dirty laundry outside
on the clothesline yesterday,
forgotten amid the ruins of fog.
sun dare not bleach the echoes
away, the creases in our elbows,
skin pruny from too much washing,
wrinkles softly as I lead you
from the yard to our back bedroom
where we make love all afternoon
amid the fresh linen scent.

 

 

letterhead

I'm tired of these hands becoming brackets,
for words, yet I do not understand
the meaning of, behind, them

plural, punctuation
each dot resemblance
I am growing closer and closer
to the blip on the monitor

when the whole world
engineered itself
in such a way, I lay myself
for ruin, watched them
rob me of my feats and dreams
to assure I would never
breathe again,

a soulless debacle,
obstacles that make no sense,
and I understand everything
that is misrepresented-
had it all figured out
before words were ever spoken

laughter fills the air,
heart is beating, broken,
breaking me down to a point
where I am rare meat sizzling,
rotten, an arrow head picked
up from clear shining water at dusk
a treasure to be found, I'm sure
by the map that your trembling
hands can barely read, the sunshine
fading once crisp letters to
discernible script.

 

 

POETRY:

 

FÍBULA
Poemas por
Manuel Neto dos Santos

IN VAIN I WAKE HER Poems by
Branko Miljkovic

LETTERHEAD
Poems by
Christina Borgoyn

MAR REVERSO
Poemas por
Pedro Abreu Simões

 

christina borgoyn

NOVEMBER POEMS
By Christina Borgoyn

 

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