by Alicia Viguer-Espert

I came to Your porch last night
the moon pregnant with herself
custodied the stone bench where I waited,
the house and its shadows swung 
as she surveyed the sky restlessly.
Constellations crossed the indigo dome
and still, You, didn’t come to me.

I extended my hand to touch You
like a child does to her mom’s apron,
to feel grounded, protected against foes,
felt your chest with blind fingers and
eyes closed, the strength of your arms. 
When Orion vanished behind the hills,
I blinked, and descended the porch steps. 

Alicia Viguer-Espert, born and raised in the Mediterranean city of Valencia, Spain, lives in Los Angeles. She learned English as an adult, began writing in English in 2017, and that same year won The San Gabriel Valley Poetry Festival Book Contest. She has been a featured poet at numerous venues within the greater LA. Her work has been published in Colorado Boulevard, Lummox Anthologies, Altadena Poetry Review, ZZyZx Intersections, Panoplyzine, Rhyvers, River Paw Press, Agape Review, Soul-Lit, Dryland, Amethyst Review, Odyseey.pm, Solum Journal, and Spectrum Publications, among others. Her chapbooks To Hold a Hummingbird,  Out of the Blue Womb of the Sea and 4 in 1, focus on nature, identity, language, home, and soul. In addition to national and international publications, she is included in “Top 39 L.A. Poets of 2017,” one of “Ten Poets to Watch on 2018,” by Spectrum. Alicia is a three times Pushcart nominee.