Marcelo Quesada

i looked out, saw the
sick orange glow cut through the black,
cut through the remains of Sun’s departure,
the porch lights raging fierce above
lonesome doors and
lonesome alleyways and
lonesome steps,
all weathered down,
their lonesomeness hanging thick
in the air that fills.

streetlights like exploding tangerines,
rooftops cutting sharp at the peak,
jutting down and fading into what
else was ungraced by fluorescence,
left to sulk back on palms and knees
into decrepit Nothing, quiet and
humming silent, choked down violent
in the air that fills.

the only star pressing through the sky begins to
blink and die, flashes piercing and jagged as glass,
(the light that travels so far) thinning out and bouncing up
like a slackline pulled taut and let loose,
a cry of dust and heat and bright, lost;
all while mutts bark at shadows, snapping
and gnarling at empty space,
teeth bared and digging rough into Nothing,
the toils of a beast meeting light,
the toils of a beast meeting absence,
these toils allowed to ring and roar
in the air that fills

mi cariño,
recuérdame cuando me haya ido,
mi cariño,
no me olvides hasta que mueres,
mi cariño,
escuchame cantar en el aire que llena. 

a car slowly backs out of an alley,
red and yellow ripping outward,
the slow, chopping growl of
a broken muffler following,
fading, pattering away, gone,
leaving Nothing, leaving that
paralytic static to fill the
mouth like cotton.


Marcelo studies Art Theory and Practice, minoring in philosophy. He loves to work with memory and the act of remembering. There’s nothing in the world quite as satisfying as a truly ripe watermelon.