Three Poems by Felino A. Soriano


Untitled by Jim Zola

 from This is How My Speaking Moves
Nearest portion of
my sound-voice
position     entropy
                 learns my
go-to syllables,
 artifact given
            over as
   grief as through
the breath I missed
my father lastly let go.
  Alone with voices, a traveling
 cycle, circling in dexterity
     to open my silence, pain,
  all that can be witnessed
   from distance’s oval
My mother turns her
 head to me, often, listens, likes the vocal contrast of my nonspeaking.  
More worded braids than sentences of sequential obfuscation⎯
 tragedy in heirloom
    leaving, what
   was forgotten.
                 Me, I’m
    made by hand: sound isn’t wandered here,
  here it was said
       I awaken to feel
     for the floor I’d forgotten
   held me cold holds
          my forthcoming death
     Trane’s Tunji plays in
  my ear, in my eye
        a swell begins to
     my feet around this home,
  one of myriad physiognomies.
                              In each,
        my parents follow me,
   raise me, reach for me when
     an hour is dark and my face
is abrupt in absence.
                  I watch
  curtains fall into vertical
silver expression in
the metal beak
indented into
the window’s
achromatic spine--
     wandering is where I
 needed to go     what
        I needed to do.  Behind me
  now was need looking forward
                         with me
   as introduction to prophecy or
 what roams from home to home,
       a hidden documentation
     in the whole of my parents’
What Comes
   , or hasn’t yet, yet
  what’s to come, I’m
      expecting before
 before me, alight light,
    lit afar, focused, soft in
  the hand, solid.  From
     where I’ve gone I’ve
   undergone translation,
 this home a silence of
       history’s going, going
   away from me, these breaths
  and mirror’s interpretive
      phased in fraction’s
   focal collaborations
       what’s coming into
  this light and theory of
                                              not whole
Where I went, what came, followed.  Light, or a theory of it followed, 
follows, finding me alone in the usual space: window-near, tableau 
explication calls my following and voice confirmation.  
My father arrives, though dead, smiling to the west of me to follow 
his example of authentic correspondence.  Alive now, both of us, 
though my death’s been predicted in the disbelief of my behavior.

Felino A. Soriano was awarded the 2017 erbacce-prize for poetry.  His writings appear in CHURN, BlazeVOX, 3:AM Magazine, The National Poetry Review, Small Po[r]tions, and elsewhere.  His books of poetry include A Searching for Full Body Syllables: fragmented olio (2017), Aging within these syllables (2017), Acclimated Recollections (2017), and Vocal Apparitions: New & Selected Poems: 2012 – 2016 (2016).

Visit Of the poetry this jazz portends for more information.  

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