Two Poems by Gabriela Garcia





July 5th

What type of cloud would form
along the edge of the water
if I didn’t clasp the light.

The girls on Union Street
wear black sneakers,
logic loose like a
highway without lanes,
the graceful texture
of new summer
full inside the fist.

The day chases
after a quiet fever as
I carve a cave made
for misbehavior.
I crawl the border
just to tease its irrelevance
and paint over it
with my stare.


Young Night

Each light switch takes a promise in
its gulp, churning the stubbornness
of stars. We fake daylight, move the
still river where it sits beneath the city.
We enter our shapes and become them,
sending gazes down the throughway into
the excess, the always, the drunken sky
twirling us on its finger.


Gabriela Garcia is a Pushcart Prize nominee whose work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Acentos Review, Word Riot, and Parallax, among others. She is an incoming MFA candidate in poetry at Columbia University.