Jul 1 2017

Skyscrapers and the dead.
Breath is exhaust fumes and dirt.

I am sloth-like through deciduous maples.
Rain rivulets straight and black like daddy’s

belt, children yell in the street.
Mirrors in the gutters.

An old boyfriend’s memory kicks me,
follows me into the alley.

His kiss, an ending, I should have fucked him,
then told his memory to go away,

instead I say, “let’s find my mother’s lost breasts,
let’s staple them back where they belong.”

© Maria Garcia Teutsch

Photo Credit: Francesca Woodman

May 14 2017

Are the children opening mouths like hungry saxophones
Clamoring for bread from my bread music?

This exhale of ours bellows in and out
And does not look like a wind instrument

Must be a fool’s hat collecting coins
Never earned by my frail mouth, not like Coltrane

We never slept in the same bed
Coltrane and I: in the same bed I’d fumble.

Yet you wind inside of me and I become your instrument
Now the breasts on my lips

Soft like the rolls I’d bake
When I finally clamored myself to you

Earning that key no door will unlock
I wake to find you seamed against me, Coltrane.

Sexe avec Coltrane

Est-ce que les enfants ouvrent la bouche comme des saxophones affamés
Réclamant du pain de ma musique à pain?

Cette expiration de nous braille aller retour
Et ne ressemble pas à un instrument à vent

Doit être une sébile qui collectionne les pièces
Jamais gagnées par ma bouche fragile, pas comme Coltrane.

Nous n’avons jamais dormi dans le même lit
Coltrane et moi: dans le même lit je me serais échappée.

Pourtant, vous vous retrouvez à l’intérieur de moi et je deviens votre instrument
Maintenant, les seins sur mes lèvres

Doux comme les rouleaux je cuirais
Quand je me suis finalement réclamé de vous

Gagner cette clé qu’aucune porte ne déverrouillera pas
Je me réveille pour vous trouver sertis contre moi, Coltrane.

Originally published in the bilingual edition of Pussy

This is actually the poem referred to in the November 2014 issue of Vanity Fair in their article about Shakespeare and Company. It is the only poem I read in French.

vanityfairetmoi

Vanity Fair: November 2014 Issue

shakesandcomereading

Reading “Sex with Coltrane” at Shakespeare and Company, Paris, France 2014

 

Cover painting by Jean-Noel Chazelle

 

Nov 10 2016

revolution cover

Here’s a groovy interview with me conducted by Climate Activist, Dan Linehan for Monterey Poetry Review

Nov 2 2016

Smooth hands are suspect.
I love the way your hands
snag my silk blouses.
Sandpaper calluses are kisses.

I have tortilla-making hands,
and fingernails with chipped red polish.
My hands are tattooed with the ink of poems.
They touch moonlight
on your cheek while you sleep.

Originally published in The Sierra Nevada Review

 

Nov 1 2016

Not the Sound a Drum Makes
Her son’s last name pounds “little drum.”
Beat of heart, rain on flat rock,
his father’s voice.

Her maiden name is her father’s name, obvious I know: Mexican tiles, adobe mouths that could say more.

Her mother’s name cries Southern wind on white porches. Tobacco teepees drying death. Black-eyed peas.

Her first name screams long-suffering virgin. Pieta. Crosses made of abalone on the roadside—

She learns how to spell a new name—
The sun says it’s green. Her last name
fields red circles, blue cloth, not the sound a drum makes.

Sep 28 2016

The shadow winks behind

a green iridescent hummingbird

 

who flits across yellow blossoms

and jade eucalyptus leaves.

 

Winter rain drizzles down the tree.

The negative space of silver

 

between branches of thought —

death’s silhouette.

 

Originally published in the “Inhabitants” issue of  Redeft

Aug 21 2016

The Piñata

Cold rain turned my shirt
into paper maché.

I tried to hold it away
from the mound of each breast.

Your warm palms traced their shape,
and you told me I was beautiful,

all wet and streaming.
I believed you.

 

Originally Published in The Two Review

Jun 23 2016

Boom, Boom, Boom, Satellite of Love

She hands him a tiny poem on a small card. He looks at her and says, “You really are a poet, do your parents know this?” He’s a physicist, the small kind of physics, like angstrom small, not astro big.
He tells her ether is an invention of poets. She says if you think it’s real then it’s real. He laughs, says she’s too rational for him. Brings her flowers tied with a purple ribbon. She resists for a while but then succumbs. They create a tiny universe too small to be seen without a microscope. They float out on a dust mote where  galaxies swirl within galaxies.

messier

Text version published in Leaf by Leaf

Multi-media version published in Porter Gulch Review

May 6 2016

Shooting by breastfeeding mother latest case of self-defense

 

in an amendment

to the second amendment

breast milk will replace guns–

daisies to replace bullets,

and mother’s will keep their sons.

 

 

Forthcoming publication in Poetry International

Mar 30 2016

This poem belongs to a series of poems forthcoming in the 2016 issue of Poetry International. While I lived abroad in Penang, Malaysia,  I’d receive my news sporadically, sometimes through unconventional means. If you didn’t know it, public media sources in Penang are censored, and free speech is well, not free. I love this place for it’s beauty and the kindness of the people there, but free speech is a right, and not a privilege.

This poem is based on a headline from the Maldives, from the collection, “Headlines”

Headlines from the Maldives

State of Emergency Declared

 

“For the safety and security of

every citizen,”

tweeted his spokesman.

Yellow trigger

fish protect their piece

of the reef

with bared teeth.