April 8, 2026

Seven Poems

Cintia Santana

unknown caller [you, in the wild-thick]

you, in the wild-thick, I tell you
it, too, was order that I craved

: a governor of winds
: Agnes Martin grids on a clear day

: not the window
but the window frame

 

who will say why
above the ankles everything sways

why in a temperate winter, a double grief
prepares to thresh all faith

 

yet even now, in the shadow of the royal spoonbill
a particular shade of violet-grey

even now, a soft-edged iron ribbon gleams
inside a house of clay

 

forgive me the custody of the eyes
the mask that’s only ever covered half my face

: no god holds the sky aloft but mercy
is singing through the trees, unnamed

: long-stemmed coreopsis, petals yellow lashes,
grow from the dead and fill the glade

 


 

unknown caller [I remember it all]

—After Hugh Raffles

I remember it all:
the unfathomable
earth, folding in on itself.
seas in slow retreat. a marble
seam, unrepeatable,
rising along an eastern
seaboard, a limestone
coarse, porous, prone to
sugaring; too soft
to withstand winters.

a creek carved through it,
past a growing city’s peak.
three rivers joined, moved
as one. a marble hill’s southern
foot, blasted, for a ship canal
to feed large vessels swiftly
toward the open mouths
of markets in the west;
an island’s tip delivered,
briefly, an island of its own.

connections may skirt
geography and logic: landfill
excavated from the channel
buried the creek, the toy-like
bridge above it rendered
obsolete. you might think
the watercourse the lenape
called shorakapok, muscoota,
papiriniman was put to rest
that way; there is no water.
no wading place. no tussock
sedge grass grows. concrete
and the absent stream flow past
a u-haul depot, discount stores,
parking lots under ailanthus trees,
an urban oxbow inscribed into
the broad flatness of the street,
its northern bank a designated
boundary between boroughs. this
is a moment in a story. the one
in which you enter, the one
you’re passing through.

 


 

a thousand years

the invasion passed.
generations passed.
paddy fields returned.
the gold cockerel, the river
that empties into the big
river below, the mountain
a spring-green hat again.

time, a little, preserved
statues of three generals,
their coffins lost. still,
collapsed walls stood.
a gate in ruins. a ravaged
roof, untiled by rain.
memorials to snow
and frost, memorials
to wind. summer circled.
dreamed.

 


 

[in time]

in time
the mountain was written

mornings shaved
the hardships of the road

years          beyond
blessings

hair          still          with snow          a poem
my pen a house

the found words
leapt          a waterfall
a hollow          a dark green pool
a thousand stones
to summer

 


 

[I wanted to send word]

here          the barrier          began
and a formal wind          straightened my hat

I wanted to send word
to the north          to the trees          the deutzia
the white roses

I appealed to a sprig          adorned green
to the leaves’ first crimson          and the snow long ago
; my uneasiness passed

I crossed          I changed
my mind’s dancing eye          witness

 


 

self-portrait as prelude

what hear. what
hard of hear.
here, what go; you.
you here
being being
breeze-blown
wild reed
grief-blown

hard, dear, to be
hard of hear. who
call, what help
for dear, what
sound in field
follow. what
wet syllable,
stringed word
reach your
dear ear

early, dear, this
hard of hear this
sound that go
to wind-speak
roar. it call. it
call you back,
what follow; no
sound in field,
but deer, silent,
ears pricked, dear,
pricked. it dark
-ens, dear. it darkens

 


 

apple, dust

manaháhtaan     lenape for place     from which we gather     wood

   to make bows     below the sangre de cristo mountains     pueblo remnants

behind the chain link fence     amid the needlegrass     the elk herd

  descends     blocks the roadway     creates     a hazard     tall     thin and given

to long work hours     oppenheimer     appears     emaciated    stares into a grove

  of cotton wood     smokes a cigarette     and then     another     summer

afternoon monsoon     in the jornada del muerto valley     the trinity test     no

longer     thunderstorm-delayed     he holds     on to a post     to steady

  himself     between     the blistering of the light     and the arrival     of the roar

  downwind     near ruidoso new mexico     teenage girls     at carmadean’s

tap and ballet camp     catch snow-like flakes     but hot     on the tongue

 

 


 
Image credit: Piet Mondrian, Composition (No. 1) Gray-Red, 1935.

Cintia Santana is a poet, translator, and interdisciplinary artist. Her poetry, translations, and fiction have appeared in Best New Poets 2016 and 2020, the 2023 Best of the Net Anthology, Poets.org, Poetry Daily, Split this Rock, as well as numerous journals. She is the recipient of fellowships from Kenyon Review, Sewanee Writers’ Conference, CantoMundo, the Atlantic Center for the Arts, and the Djerassi Resident Artists Program. She teaches translation courses, in addition to poetry and fiction workshops in Spanish and in English at Stanford University. She is a former member of San Francisco’s Right Window Gallery.

(view contributions by Cintia Santana)