Andrea Juillerat-Olvera is a scholar and thinker creating on a multitude of levels. Her writing is informed by daily exposure to a broad range of learning environments and time spent living abroad.
a poem of skin and sound
Pursued by police
we escaped through the field
jumped in the ditch and swam away
though your palm was bleeding
and the barbed wire had cut my side.
the epiphany of your freckles
tiny constellations inside of your labia
road maps leading to the point of ecstasy
I traced Gemini on your thigh
the ticklish whiskers of your ghost cat
replaced by the howl of coyotes.
We braided our hair together at dusk
a canyon full of frogs
green and lucid behind your house
clustered near tiny puddles
under the moonlit highway
evening marred by their deafening song
and the sound of passing cars. …
She kept the baby, deeming his existence separate from and innocent of
the brutal origin of his conception. She endeavored to love him free of inhibition and intrusive, unwelcome images. Although, the shape of his face
contained more than her own.
Later, he and I woke beneath heavy blankets under frozen skies
on a farm in Wisconsin. His fine brown body cupped my form, the moisture of sex drying on our skin while the cold sun rose to the accompaniment of breakfast sounds.
I listened to the bleating of sheep, the snapping of a newly kindled fire,
the warbling contentment of his mother about the kitchen. Even then, I wondered what the price would be, what part of me was soaking up the hurt? Eventually, he returned to the flat lands while I kept my roost on the coast. …
How many birds will feast on the garden of my body when the sky opens up like an expensive whore and gives me all her colors at once? A sunny day becomes the pariah, real-life includes slow death, the decades-long crawl toward decay, the leaking out of vitality, until you are left a dried husk of a person. Within this dearth lies the limits of power, the edges of your surge, the shape of your mortality.
We carry a vision of our god-selves, the taste of our zenith, the dancer in the striking night, a memory of the way insects and animals gathered around as if they too were listening to the magnificent crescendo of your life. But now, I work to still the moving self, to silence the clamoring child, to paint myself in repose. …