Sophia Valera

scattered across the train are the biblical notes of another writer,

another rider

lost or forgotten

like the lord’s designation

to forgive debt every seven years.

scattered across my mind are the thoughts of all the dates I’ve dropped off

consistency, once key,

a sullied burden for me,

work that isn’t worth saving.

you don’t know worth.

you need saving.

values bygone like Saturday morning cartoons.

Faithfulness to recover a love of something bigger than you.



Our single moms lived in their cars,

hauling us endlessly from home to school and then winding back to work,

alternating between the scenic route and the straight cut,

trading us off from Red Roller Skate to white Volvo,

then gray Mazda after the distraction crash with the winged.

Now, a distant firework. Something is popping off.

I hope sometimes things popped off for our single moms,

hanging paintings in the hall outside the Barnes and Noble bathrooms,

and letting us hold the cash box at their backroom burrito joint gigs.

Bright colors,

heart shaking songs,

and shouting at us with their hands on the steering wheel.

We did drive them crazy, but they trust our driving now.



Our favorite men

and their favorite shirts.

Holes, mostly holes.

Not how we define them or us

but they are most comfortable in something well worn.

Texture, more important than color or make,

never wrinkle free,

never on the professional track

like us, but unlike us,

with our necessary concern for bodies and clothes,

and the lines of clothes on our bodies,

and how it will all be perceived

mingling on our skin, covering our holes, which are universes.

Choice helps us feel less dehumanized

so our every man, our only man,

pull out your holiest shirt.

Choose to bare it all.



coming slowly into focus, oozing out of the bottom,

you are the flower boy leading the procession

funeral vs. wedding, gloves vs. hands.

heat pulses, bends us, letting blood thin like water.

i thought we were ready to relate.

*energy* Dig in *energy*

Lots here is imperfect

like breakfast @ 5.

Spreading into the rest of time

and failing to make a sound.

Taking flight was an unintended effect

but we like my height.

See the full video this poem is based on here:



Almost blurred in the subtlety of its mutation.

Motion, not because of quickness,

but because of consciousness flickering,

steps forth.

Light hits in a wash

exposing all the details

before its reach pulls away.

Boy, are things changing fast.

More than those fucked up fingers can handle.

Laying down the barrier between a verdant spring and a crumpled winter.

They can sure move though,

floating about the heat

with the movement of smoke puddled in the valley

and dusk charging in

stealing light.