Poetry: Selections from Niki Perez

When I Die

send me to the place

where waters are words,

paper is shore.

It Was a Box for Memoirs

they said,

as you sifted

through my brain

like I was easy,

held your stutter when

I threatened to walk.

By morning, a flower

shed its head like a virus

claiming victory over

teeth inside my heart. Tell me

why the daisies sing

when our memories bite

and then belong to

everyone.

Luz

I sometimes sit down. Write

bullets that pierce reason.

Sometimes, I write down. Sit

up and reason bulls.

 

Mine is a game of kinetics

like the night I lost my dog

and threw up her name

because she was just there.

 

Loss is not lost. Hope

near doubt is an absent funeral,

but it makes great flyers

or a newly built cemetery

 

all over town. Imagine

mourning paper trails,

paw print stained tile floors—

when you get phoned

 

by the only honest person

left about a pug

her husband found

walking south on the Turnpike.

Niki Perez is a mom, a commercial real estate guru, and a word slayer. She makes no apologies for being an alpha female, though her sword fighting skills need practice. Once, Niki was an owl of literature and creative writing at FAU. You might find her pen in Coastlines Literary Magazine.