Crisanta Martins

What was the prize

The hard heart

only learned

to win

Never learned

to hold

the intangible

except dark

only climbed ladders

never told light

hearted jokes

I wanted

to laugh 




Shiny shoes

walked by

I heard 

the tin can



dirty finger nails


worn guitar strings

You said ‘get a job’

I saw 
the sunrise

in her birth

you saw


Interpretation of a Dream

You have feet like gas pedals. I turn to my side. The feeling of a tickle behind a neck. You run past fear and into a piece of light and a door. A thousand small feet leave skid marks on the pavement. 

They say it stems from anxiety in my waking life. You are clever.  You escape the one big man with no big face. Your mouth mouths something to me. It sounds like a defense mechanism.

All I can remember is the long road not wearing stop signs. I remember the shadow of the man and heard him coming. The crowd’s dressed in nightgowns. You undress and then dress in some woman’s clothing, sit at the dinner table, and pretend to be the picture in the hallway.

They say it parallels my response to pressure. You never turn around. The new clothes are comfort. I adjust my pillow. The new house is safety. It’s true I don’t like confrontation.

Yes, I’ve seen these images before. My memory carries a shovel, digs it up. When my eyes open, they see fuzzy darkness. My sister asks me why I’m so private sometimes. I have feet like gas pedals.

Crisanta Martins is a first-year student at Boston University and resides in Boston, MA, but permanently lives in Rhode Island. At BU, she is currently enrolled in Writing 100: Poetry Now!