Poems by Tesa Silvestre


These hands 

These hands of mine
have 27 bones each,
and none of them
ever broke.

They like
to start the day
saluting the sun,
then gliding freely
across the page
creating words
out of thin air.

They painted a squirrel last week
with a crown of pink flowers.
Tomorrow, they will fill
the car’s tank.

These hands
held the children’s book
I read to my mother
the night before she died.

They spread my father’s ashes
in the rose garden
behind Notre Dame
near the bridge
where he stood, smiling,
when he was twenty something,
on that black and white photo
he gave me when I last saw him.

These hands know
how to hold my heart
when it hurts.

And I felt
they deserved
a poem.


Dear Half-Baked Poem,

I know you were hoping
to be born by midnight,
but the muse was cooked
and called it a day.

She did leave
these prompts behind,
and this short message:
“Be patient!
I do my best work
while sleeping.”

It looks like she has
an epistle in mind.

Dear Amygdala
Dear Buttery Soft Sheets
Dear Cat Nap
Dear Day I was Born
Dear Fear of Betrayal
Dear Forgiveness Angels
Dear Frida, Georgia, and Hilma
Dearest, Dearest Hafiz
Dear Disappearing Dark Sky
Dear Favorite Words
Dear Inner Guidance
Dear Grasshopper Guru
Dear Great Night Sleep
Dear 12th House Moon
Dear Luna Moth
Dear Indie Philanthropy
Dear Landfills of the World
Dear Last Breath
Dear Lingering Doubt
Dear Mister Rogers
Dear Porous Boundaries
Dear Pulsing Presence
Dear Sage and Cosmic Helpers
Dear Solar Flares
Dear Sun-Pluto Opposition
Dear Starry Night
Darling Tesa
Dear Yin and Yang
Dear Zero-Sum Games