there is no serpent in my mouth
no eel, or slime, or love/
bitter taste/
a marinade of herbs that heal/
regrets/
salt gathers in the corner of my eyes
enough to season a feast/
pricks of longing
in soft centers/
an illusion with eyes closed
chiming gold on hard cement
powdered, hidden treasure/
a punishment for silence and
moments left unfed
damp and broken
pieces falling off,
found never/
teeming
needy
empty
angry

Ingrid Calderon-Collins is a Salvadoran poet & refugee residing in Los Angeles. She's published in OCCULUM, Electric Cereal, Dryland, Seafom Mag, Memoirmixtapes, Punch Drunk Press, Moonchild Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Bad Pony Mag, L'Éphémère Review amongst others etc... Guilty of four full-length poetry books entitled 'Things Outside', 'Wayward' & 'Zenith' & 'Ablution.' She invites you to stalk her on Twitter @BrujaLamatepec and read her rants at notesofadirtyyoungwoman.com