David Estringel is a Xicanx writer/poet with works published in literary publications like The Opiate, Azahares, Cephalorpress, DREICH, Somos en escrito, Ethel, The Milk House, Beir Bua Journal, and The Blue Nib. His first collection of poetry and short fiction Indelible Fingerprints was published April 2019, followed Blood Honey and Cold Comfort House (2022, little punctures (2023), and Blind Turns in the Kitchen Sink (scheduled for July 2023). David has also written six poetry chapbooks, Punctures, PeripherieS, Eating Pears on the Rooftop, Golden Calves, Sour Grapes, and Blue (late 2023). Connect with David on Twitter @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidaestringel.com. 

House of Spirits 

 
There’s a 
rap, rap, rapping 
on my bedroom door. 
The rocking chair 
creaks. 
The ceiling fan light, 
overhead, winks 
in flirtatious rhythm. 
Who else but me 
disturbs the dust 
and haunts 
the cold of these walls 
and hungry keyholes? 
Shadows 
enter at the exit 
(I hear) 
and outstay their welcome. 
I yawn 
and stretch 
and rub my eyes,  
as if to say, 
“Time to go. Party’s over,” 
but they don't listen.
Can’t say when it started. 
Don’t know when it will end. 
Just hoping they’re not waiting 
for me to join  
the fun. 


**originally published at Roi Faineant Press

Indigo

The curtains pull
‘cross the landscape
behind my eyes—
the way they do
on days like this—
emerged
from sleep,
from splashes of water
in the basin,
and black coffee
past a sugared tongue.
Praised be drip-dried epiphanies
that swirl 
and stir ‘neath drowsy lids,
over smoking toasters
and morning papers, 
rousing consciousness 
with gentle shocks 
like chewing aluminum foil
and the last lick of a taser’s kiss.

There’s a blue sky outside.
A blue blue,
The bluest blue.
The kind of blue that bruises the sky
before its skin splits
(re)submerging
us
with splashes
more
of an angry rain
that dismantles
but doesn’t drown,
diminishes
but doesn’t destroy.
Indigo is its color—
Indigo, the King of Blue.

It’s a violet field,
trampled 
by God’s thumb
and the hard souls of saints,
raining down
blessings of sweet water—
like napalm
set aflame 
by the perfumed blood 
of petals—
upon waking earth and trees,
parking lots and sidewalks,
and skin, 
leaving scars and cold scorches
and ghosts.
It smells like cuts and mud
and shit.
It smells like indigo—
Indigo, the King of Blue.


**originally published at San Antonio Review

Lover’s Kaddish

Come, 
again,
and walk beside me
down the verdant path,
‘cross this deathly sprawl,
reading poetry from tombstones
and the yellowed pages 
of your tattered Lorca.
How sweet the ballads 
and laments on the breeze
that sift through soft yews—
just yonder—
that shake 
like fists
at wrought-iron gates—
at Heaven—
clutching their red burdens (in clusters)
like beating hearts
to breasts of evergreen.
Dance with me
to the whispers of cypress trees—
so tall 
they cut the sky, 
bloodying
what God painted blue,
and the laughter of boys and girls, 
as they duck and dart 
from behind the pale bounty 
of this garden of stone,
reveling
in perpetual games
of tag and Hide & Seek.
Will you find me
at dewy dawn
amongst sprays of grocery store bouquets
in cellophane wrappings
that cry silent tears?
Or in the cold of a moonrise, 
contemplating our stars
and the gossip of earthworms?
When…o when, 
will I see you, again? 
Will memory outlast the letters
of my name?
Loneliness the promise?
There is no end 
(so it seems)
to this longing, our endless game
(Who hides?
Who seeks?),
just a stone on my pillow
and the endless promise
of evergreen. 


**originally published at San Antonio Review