Zenith – A Poem by Clayre Benzadón

Poetry Breakfast

Zenith
by Clayre Benzadón

Above, the world
bursts eminence.

Mauve and mildew
residue lid lilacs,

corollas run off
on a split doze.

Under the spherical
point, vernal tides

bloom forth
seasonal resilience,

equinox and prime
seedtime, more growth.

Silence hints,
then fully coves

spring, singing
without me,

a single hymn ripped
out of the clouds.

About the Poet: Clayre Benzadón is currently a second-year MFA student at the University of Miami and Broadsided Press’s Instagram editor. 

She has been published by The Acentos Review, HerStory, Rat’s Ass Review, and other literary magazines / journals. Additionally she has had the opportunity of attending The Miami’s Writer’s Institute and The Ashbery Home School, a week-long poetry writing workshop/conference in Miami.

Twitter: @ClayreBenz
Instagram: clayrebenz
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/cbenzadon

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Sunflower Song – A Poem by Clayre Benzadón

Poetry Breakfast

Sunflower Song
by Clayre Benzadón

Bleeding heart, bloodroot.
The boneset of calla shuts

up the body of windflower
chimes, bluebells ringing

inside ghosted globe
thistles, darting

golden buttons. Yellow
archangels trumpet

the mouths of tulips
until they become a sun-

flower, summer
savory, heliotropism,

the way they face day-
light, a sweet asylum

in the symmetrical
stretch toward its golden
+++++++++angle.

About the Poet: Clayre Benzadón is currently a second-year MFA student at the University of Miami and Broadsided Press’s Instagram editor. 

She has been published by The Acentos Review, HerStory, Rat’s Ass Review, and other literary magazines / journals. Additionally she has had the opportunity of attending The Miami’s Writer’s Institute and The Ashbery Home School, a week-long poetry writing workshop/conference in Miami.

Twitter: @ClayreBenz
Instagram: clayrebenz
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/cbenzadon

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Escapade

Aren’t we all
escapists, though,

entering
into a system

in which we
contort to form

the thing we want
most?

Escapades. We
want what hurts

most to get
the best pleasure.

I dare you
to jump off
of the crowned

monarch of another
presence, another
world.

We were on the
rooftop shotgunning
beers with the notes

of hot charm,
when the thorn
of harm hit us.

We thought we
were fun up
there, at the edge

of the platform.
It could have
been so

easy, the spree
of not-
hing, antic,

antic, frantic
folly.

Night Owl Dock

Conscious dance
in the home of my-
self.

The rain was gravy
when I sat outside.

It started to stick
to my eyes.

On the dock,
wooden tables
spread out,

wanting to reach
the houses
on the hill
of the mountains.

People talk
business, writers
come with notepads.

Lazy shadow day.
Shadow play.

Small trills
of drizzle,
robin, the ice

of sound that
feels like night
the whole after-

noon.

Do you remember?
When it was still
freezing out and

I didn’t bring a warm
enough jacket, and
neither did you,

so you took my hand
as we walked on

 the pavement

slipping like
night owls?

Pineapple

We eat pine-
apple in daytime.

Pile up the pins
from the peel,

lip our pain,
spit the spikes

into our laps.
We were a reck-
less junkyard,

with our hands
on the plush natal
queen, and the mid-

day juice spilled
all over us. We ran

mad with the corpse
of an apology.

The stem of the fruit
is just a nipple.

You kept shaking
the top, where you
made a small incision,

Kept nursing it
like a pale kitten,

absorbing tropical
gold welcome.

 

 

Thirteenth Hour

If a clock
doesn’t strike
thirteen,

analyze the animal.

Command military
time to let out profound
heartbeats. Demand

a certain extra hour,
for when time is dead

and there is no limit
to midnight. Dimness

found in concept, main
lock in absent nail-

tick of
last hour.