Sophia Torres-Ulrich
They Shoot Horses Don’t They
Don’t look at me when you look at me.
Strange harp. Soft symphony.
All this music
formless. Look
around. The day is plain.
We get but so many reasons
to surrender. People
carry on with their tasks. Stoplights
keep flashing. Your eyes in the face of a man
that passes by. The long ribbon
of my memory
does not go where it goes.
Dear brother,
light is the heart of the earth.
To Realize How We Suffer
Mama places me in a lake
says make this poem
more brown women drowning.
In kindergarten a girl asks me
do people with dark eyes
see the world differently.
What would you say if I told you
I am ashamed
drunk once more.
Dead things I resurrect
in my notebook, I write
poetry is returning.
In a pot of beans
Grandmother slow-cooks
the shoulder of a pig.
Mama says don’t forget
wherever you go
there you be.
Secrets of the Veiled Lady
Juana Inés de la Cruz was and was not a typical nun
I see her face partly in the fabric of stone archetype
A statue in pure white her face obscures marble
Translucent in the carvings she opens her mouth
Her hands turn upward
I was inflamed with the desire to know how to read
As if moved by an act of desire I cover my mouth while reading
All sonnets are echoes of other sonnets
The Spanish baroque is a Mexican woman
There is no limit of knowledge in wood or marble
A rosary dangles from her neck and reaches my knees
The Cliff Dwelling
It’s a lie that houses with ocean views can’t be seen from the outside in
But a man that digs up dirt
Spends his whole life staring at the ground
There’s only one place where cliffs float in the sky
Along the coastline is a house built on stilts
Made of wood and big windows
With a backyard that drops
Grass into fog
The ocean starts where it ends
The eye contains the earth like a field of vision between us
Mountains that rise from the rocky Pacific
How we begin to look at each other so rugged
As if called by the wrong name
Grandeur waves itself against rock
The color of air is not a sea
I can’t do this I’m sorry I really can’t
I’m from California where the beach is its edge
And people go to open houses
Slam It!
Sugar shook down
Soft as sound
Flow slap
Black Cadillac humming.
Candy paint saint
Chevy Impala cruise
1978 groove top down
On a Tuesday.
LA fascists
Beverly hills plastic
Homeboys and homegirls
In Westside classics.
Low rider señorita
Strawberry sweet margarita
Ranchero gold Camaro
Make me wanna Americana.
About the Author
Sophia Torres-Ulrich is a Mexican-American poet from California and currently a second-year graduate student at Columbia University.