FELICIA ZUNIGA’s poetry has been published in Contemporary Verse 2 – The Canadian Journal of Poetry and Critical Writing, The Antigonish Review, Montreal Writes, Existere - Journal of Arts & Literature, Freefall Magazine, Accenti Magazine, Goat’s Milk Magazine and an e-book published by San Fedele Press called, “Art in the Time of Covid-19.”
Day Race, Goat’s Milk Magazine, May 2021
It trickles away helplessly
wordlessly
without warning
Who knows the things you could have
accomplished
if it didn’t jolt away
your lifeblood
if it didn’t slash
your face with wrinkles
if it didn’t choke
you of the talents
you knew
were harboring inside
somewhere
The sun performs its
perfunctory duty
The moon sneaks into
work on time
The seasons play their parts with
alarming bravado
How come you can’t keep up?
always lagging behind, winded
they are powered from within
You’re evidently unplugged
Leaking consciousness
evaporating fickle cells
that were once filled with
something
Blink and you’ll miss it
the idea that could have
brought you great fame from
today has just floated away
on a wisp of goodbye
on a strand of yesterday
Dad’s home videos, Goat’s Milk Magazine, May 2021
Coloured fountains sparkled
at the Stampede that year to
commemorate some event or
another. You peered up from behind
the trickle of pink green water
to tip your cowboy hat before
retreating into the blur of broken
rainbow sunshine.
In the swimming scenes you
tugged your bottoms so up high that
your belly button was lost inside.
Skinny arms gripped your body when
you ran from the edge to the
board and pretended you knew how
to dive. I see how the story of you
falling and smacking your hard
head upon the deck came about.
Ripples of cousins, neighbors
and friends, singing through birthdays
at your cramped duplex and laughing as your
brother pinched your ears or that
one little girl with flipped-out pigtails
blinked her lashes for the camera.
The film is fuzzy in some spots around the
edges and shaky too. Lots of sleek old cars,
well-groomed houses and scenery shots when Tata
must have gotten bored of filming all of you
standing around, hands in
high pants pockets.
The dancing scenes at the annual Italian picnic
are my favorite though. The camera weaving in and out of
mismatched couples with beehive hairdos,
tight white pants, thick glasses and bowling shoes.
It’s how people met back then
sharing runny watermelon and
offbeat moves with future spouses.
Everything seemed simpler then
viewed from vintage lenses.
The Wait, Goat’s Milk Magazine, May 2021
The wait seeps into your skin
stretching it into rivers of worry
It pours into your stomach
tightens knots and tosses acid
The wait pulls on your hair
until it strips it of colour
Muscles and memories become dull
corroded by the salty licks of wait
It erases sunlight from your eyes
spring from your step
definition from your days
The wait creeps into your bones
Your jaw becomes tight from the grind
of teeth every night
The wait happens in your mind
but it takes your body too
You never know if today
will be the day and your heart
sits up like the sun every morning
then slinks back into darkness at night
You install routines you can set your hands to
They shove you through the day
even when you try to stop them
You keep moving even when the wait
bites and stings and scratches
You still wait and you hope
in the mornings
March, Goat’s Milk Magazine, May 2021
Slides in and out
as he pleases
warm some days
cold the next
an inconsiderate liar
Now he breezes in like a false spring
and blows hot secrets into my ears
promises destination vacations, sand and blue skies
so I pack away my wools
until he cancels last minute again
He acts distant on the phone
I can hear the wind in his voice
feel the ice in his touch
unexpected fury and fights
When I see him again
he’s green with delirium
drunk with indecision
by the time he’s gone for good
it’s already April Fool’s and I realize
the joke is on me
Wasted Talent, Accenti Magazine, February 2021
“When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, ‘I used everything you gave me.’” – Erma Bombeck
But what if you stood before Him
at the close of your moments
still stuffed with
unused talents?
Only a few bits used up
That is very wasteful
says God
I could have given those
To someone else
But I wanted you to have them
I thought you could do something with them
Sorry God, you say sheepishly, scratching your head
I always thought I’d start using that one day
Well, what will we do with all this good stuff now?
And He blows through your
soul and all of the scraps of
what could have been
would have been
should have been
(if only you’d had enough time)
(if only you’d stopped with the excuses)
(if only you’d just started)
tremble back down to earth
unsuspecting humans
absorb a bit of you
while hurrying on their way
suddenly filled with shiny new thoughts
Inside and Outside, Art in the Time of Covid-19, e-book, San Fedele Press, July 2020
Inside, days are a blur
Bleeding into one another
Piles of dishes that constantly reappear
Hair in a messy bun for weeks
Counting down the seconds until naptime then bedtime
Numbing ourselves with TV shows, movies, games
And cookies, dozens of cookies until they’re all gone
A walk every day or two to clear your head
Try and inhale some sunlight
Bring the outside into our bodies
A hot shower if you’re lucky
To wash off the failure, boredom and loneliness of yesterday
Getting dressed back into pajamas
No need for clothes or makeup
You are not what you once were out there
Inside we are quiet, we are slow
We notice the ticking of the clocks
The clicking of the keyboards
The crumbs crawling across the floor
Frustration ebbs and flows
Then everything stands still
Outside, I come alive again
The only place that still seems normal
The trees that have stood for eternity
Will continue on long after we’re gone
The air, the sky, the grass, just as we left it
Until I see the red plastic tape snaking
Around the playgrounds
Even the outside has changed now
We’ve all changed, inside and outside
Snow Day, Existere - Journal of Arts & Literature, Volume 39, Issue 1, Fall/Winter 2020
We sit on the stained carpet in two-day old pajamas
Your hot breath smells like the strawberry oatmeal I spoon-fed you for breakfast
Shards of it hardened on your cheek and fingers
ma, ma, ma
Snowflakes crash against the window, we watch them dive
and hide inside
You screech and howl, you’re bored here. And so am I
For fun, you stab your finger up my nose and laugh while blood spills down my lip
wa, wa, wa
How do we distract ourselves as one cold day sticks to the next
We drenched our summer in play dates - swings and strolls, picnics and pools
Now it’s just you and I holed up alone. Your new bottom teeth jut out like broken glass
la, la, la
I trace the whirlpool of matted curls at the back of your head
Before you slap my hand away.
A minefield of Cheerios and a surge of yogurt
Expose one of your many strikes of destruction
ba, ba, ba
I try to watch T.V. but you snatch the remote and smash it against the screen
We FaceTime your dad for six seconds, he can’t see us because you insist on
Pushing the red X to kill every call to the outside
da, da, da
Finally, I scoop you up and squeeze your little body to me as we walk to the back door
I swing it open and we blink in the rush of light.
A wave of cold washes over us
We are finally quiet and still as we take in the
mystical white world that lies beyond
It is February and I have been pregnant forever, Montreal Writes, October 2019
Winter bears down but the baby stays put, he hangs on tight as a migraine
No plans to roam outside in this cold, he holes up in his pot of fluid
I incubate us inside the house, as the blizzard breaks records and entombs everything
Outside the window, I watch the storm’s outbursts, while you stay undercover
He is our first; suspicious of us and this snow globe we live in
He monitors weather warnings, scowling as they say more flakes will fall
When I decide to step outside, he squeezes his eyes shut against the burn of white
Perhaps he wanted to be greeted by heat and honeysuckles instead
I coerce him into a walk and ask, “Do you feel the quiet?” Can you smell the sparkle?
Outside, all is barren. Inside, I am filled to the brim with him
We stumble through snow humps as my bones become numb
He tunnels deep inside, swearing not to surface till spring
I coax him with six sticky sweet Medjool dates daily, hunks of plump pineapple
Where I eat everything including the core, washed down with red raspberry leaf tea
I try to convince him we feast on tropical fruit, surrounded by starfish and seashells
He retaliates by propelling his feet so deep in my belly, I spew expensive snacks
At night, I stuff myself into a pillow fort, wrenched up on my left, while my hips spasm
I cloak him in creamy wool blankets and he plays, satisfied with the sweaty dark
He starts his nightly swim, sometimes he’s too worked up and his hiccups begin
My belly bobbing with each burst from his lungs until dawn
Every morning I rise hopeful, wondering if today he will emerge
Focusing on my feet as I navigate ice sheets on the way to doctor appointments
They poke and knock at your door but you keep it shut, ignoring all visitors
We hear the solid thwomp of your heart and know you must be stowed away
It is February and I have been pregnant forever
Afterbirth, Montreal Writes, October 2019
No one will tell me how many stitches
Are binding my insides together
A running stitch, internal and external
Embroidered inside me where I was once whole
Now I’m spun with black thread
Hostile knots knitted to hidden flesh
*
They say it takes a village, to raise a child
For us, having a child, raised a village
An underground labyrinth teeming with cinnamon scones and witch hazel
Gift baskets branch out on our kitchen table
Packages and people surround us, propping us up with walls of support
So we don’t collapse under the weight of this new life
*
We’ve moved inside, the exterior world no longer concerns us
Only the life we created inside the four walls of our home
The rooms where we now sleep, eat and sway with him
He is the sun we rise to and the moon we rest under
The basement bedroom has become our vacation hotspot
My husband and I take turns kissing goodbye
Before floating down the dark flight of stairs to dissolve
*
In baby class, we go round the circle
Exchanging nap tips and apps like scraps of gold
How to make them sleep is the Holy Grail
We all have black eyes and snag only broken minutes of shut-eye per day
Everyone is pleased to hear they’re not alone; we suffer together
Taking turns tucking babies into wraps and comparing peak crying times
*
He is at the breast again, his favourite position
The books say that mothers should be comfortable, but I never am
Back hunched over in pain as I rush to respond
I fold into the letter C and cater my body to all his commands
He latches and slurps like a king
When I try and move, he hisses
When I try and switch sides, he clamps down harder
Choosing to empty one breast, leaving the other full and leaking
I beg him to stay asleep each time I set him down, but he eats every hour
All the minutes of the night become known to me
*
I see his face everywhere, in unwashed piles of laundry
In the folds of the blankets, in all the shapes of darkness
I wake with a start, panicked, even though he lies in the bassinet beside me
My nipples feel like they are being sucked by a phantom infant
And he’s even followed me into my dreams; I will never be alone again
*
I don’t recognize my body; I am one of the giant mother pigs
Spread out on display at the Calgary Stampede every summer
Piglets attached to each teat, swigging milk as everyone stares
My hair is unwashed and falling out of its bun
There’s jam on my arm and crumbs stuck to me from when I shoved bread into my mouth
My stomach is soft and thick and puffs straight out
The rest of me is swollen, hobbling around the house
I’m scared to cough or sneeze in case it disrupts the stitches
*
My skin smells like spit-up, sweat and breast milk
When I feel damp, I don’t know which of the three liquids stains me
If I dare sleep more than three hours, the stinging of my nipples wakes me
Mother Nature warning me I am no longer here to sleep
I am here to serve.
Moving, Montreal Writes, October 2019
I have lived many lives
A child with knotted stuffed animals
and missing eyes
books and games dented
with bite marks
A schoolgirl with broken hopscotch handles
and purple juice stained notebooks
valentine cards with the slanted scrawl
of long forgotten best friends
A teenager with pages and pages
of diary punctuated with the initials of her great loves
notes from boys revealing all the secret
things they want to do alone together
notes from girls discussing how to do
all the secret things the boys said
they wanted to do
A university student with sloppy essays
slashed with the red marks of professors
eager textbooks bright with desperate
highlighting and mounds of notes reciting
words and meanings you can no longer remember
Old yearbooks, our faces trapped in time
for one perfect instance of youth
and crushing vulnerability
all thrown out in the rush of moving
Long empty bottles of perfume
that still smell like careless high school summers
cheap jewellery from the boy you swore
you’d never leave
swirled together in the vortex of
black garbage bags
I have lived many lives
and I will live many more
Lucky girl, CV2 - The Canadian Journal of Poetry and Critical Writing, Winter 2018
I wish people would quit telling me I can do
whatever I want
I never thought I couldn’t
You’re so lucky you know
so bursting with luck
A red cherry balloon brimming with magic dust
The gooey white icing on an angel food cake
The silky gloss on the penny you found
That’s what you are
You’re gonna go places
Like Aeaea or Atlantis or Avalon
You’re gonna have things
Like gilded treasures and
two savings accounts and
more luck
So burdened with luck that my head could
implode from all that good fortune
and pressure and pressure
A red balloon spirals back down to
earth her eager little cellophane body couldn’t withstand the jeers from the clouds
The prods from the wind
The burns from the planets
The cold shoulder from the moon
White icing is always left smeared
on the edge
of the plate
It’s not good for you anyways
they say
And after clinging to your pocket waiting for a clever chance to shine
the penny looks like all the others
tarnished and brassy and
common
Bad boys, The Antigonish Review, Issue #162, Summer 2010
Sometimes while she scrubs at pots
the steel wool reminds her of their scruffy cheeks
and cigarette smoke reminds her of stale, ashy mouths
which couldn’t have tasted any better
The good ones gave you mixed CDs and smiles
and promises and waited for you
The bad ones gave you parts of their body
and bruised necks and puffy eyes and a rush
The good ones paused at your stoop and only kissed
you politely after they asked
The bad ones rammed their tongue down your
throat and didn’t care even if you said
No.
Not that you ever did
Not that you ever would
Always wanting a bad boy to put his
mouth and his wildness all over you
You never knew when your friend would whip around
bloodthirsty, irritated with time-telling
and suddenly become
the wolf
raise splayed claws and sprint after you
with renewed speed, howling and drooling
until she seized upon the
slowest victim
And what about the one where you squeezed
your sweaty fingers around someone’s
dirty hand and never let go
even when the other team would hurl
eighty pound missiles
eyes stuck squeezed, teeth clenched
until the runner was
pushed down back flat
your wrists moaned and throbbed
but at least the enemy didn’t invade
this time
Do you remember the feeling of being chased
running for your very life
until a hand slashed
at any part of your body and immediately
you were
stiff
frozen stiff
Arms and legs spread as if you were about
to be patted down and searched
until some grimy boy burrowed his head
between your legs
and set you
free