Without thinking,

I made a hole in the air.

One that was a small pock mark,

a dimple of careful cells.

Through the days,

I’d go and stare at it,

peep through it,

until it grew,

to a window first,

panes of frosted lemonade,

then to a door,

with its screaming, peeling bark.

I tried to cover it up

with words knit together into scarves,

but nothing was enough.

So now there’s a cave

living in front of me.

A mouth that shrieks and whispers

its isolated thoughts.

It is just the two of us here,

a gaping, unhinged jaw,

and me.

Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Magnolia’s Press, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals and will appear in the upcoming editions  A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, Death Rattle, Danse Macabre, Subliminal Interiors, Generations Literary Journal, Super Poetry Highway, Stream Press, Stone Telling, Popshot and Perhaps I’m Wrong About the World. You can find her here: http://coldbloodedlives.blogspot.com