Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

— Virginia Woolf


by José Angel Araguz

Her skin is dappled with brown spots

like flour tortillas singed over flame,


the flat of a pan like a palm

fevered and eager to touch,


or so it seems to him, watching her,

wanting to take credit


for whatever fire

turned her skin


to geography,

whatever flame licked to life


those spots that resonate:

brown color of the earth,


brown color of his skin—but no,

if anything, he falls apart


as clouds do,

drop by drop,


the brown of his skin

a rain caught now


on her shoulders,

her arms, her face.




Also by José Angel Araguz: On Being Called Jorge

A CantoMundo fellow, JOSÉ ANGEL ARAGUZ has had poems recently in Huizache and Salamander. He is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing and Literature at the University of Cincinnati. Author of six chapbooks and the collection Everything We Think We Hear, he runs the poetry blog The Friday Influence.


The truth may be stretched thin, but it never breaks, and it always surfaces above lies, as oil floats on water.

—Cervantes, Don Quixote

© 2016 The Indianola Review