My binoculars are covered in pollen
–so it must be summer at last.
And here comes that woodpecker,
the mystical one,
the one I invented, for times like these.
His feathers are made of steel.
His beak is neither gold nor hope.
Pure bone on flesh
brings a sort of peace
in heat, dust, and sorrow.
I saw him again today
when with trembling hands
I raised my ringing phone
that hideous Talthybius.
I could not answer.
I no longer listen.
Let time rip my bones apart.
I’d rather watch my imaginary bird
through yellowed lenses.
The Chemist Thinks of Her Love
as an ionic bond
but wonders who does the stealing.
Their polarization evident from the start,
different levels and all that,
but worse when the relentless water drips
on their metal roof
a titration of gray.
Time supplies each color
in silent sighs and vacant glances.
A kiss with the substance of an electron.
Staring at her skin, the chemist wishes
the blood underneath would rush,
creating a magnetic field.
Would that bind him stronger?
Passion is real.
Orbits of energy releasing heat
no light, but sounds
like ancients forgotten,
like the ether that used to inhabit the cavity
of bone and skin and void.
Covalence might be in other homes,
Carbon to carbon was not their destiny.
She plays with a mote of dust
and wonders at matter as it rises.
Born in México and raised in Puerto Rico, Amelia Díaz Ettinger writes poems that reflect the struggle with identity often found in immigrants. She began writing poetry at age three by dictating her poems out loud to her uncles. Now retired, Ettinger continues to write with fervor. She currently resides in Summerville, Oregon with her husband Chip, two dogs, two cats, and too many chickens.