Poetry: Selections from Niki Perez



When I Die

send me to the place
where waters are words,
paper is shore.



It Was a Box for Memoirs

they said,
as you sifted
through my brain
like I was easy,
held your stutter when
I threatened to walk.
By morning, a flower
shed its head like a virus
claiming victory over
teeth inside my heart. Tell me
why the daisies sing
when our memories bite
and then belong to
everyone.



Luz

I sometimes sit down. Write
bullets that pierce reason.
Sometimes, I write down. Sit
up and reason bulls.
 
Mine is a game of kinetics
like the night I lost my dog
and threw up her name
because she was just there.
 
Loss is not lost. Hope
near doubt is an absent funeral,
but it makes great flyers
or a newly built cemetery
 
all over town. Imagine
mourning paper trails,
paw print stained tile floors—
when you get phoned
 
by the only honest person
left about a pug
her husband found
walking south on the Turnpike.





Niki Perez is a mom, a commercial real estate guru, and a word slayer. She makes no apologies for being an alpha female, though her sword fighting skills need practice. Once, Niki was an owl of literature and creative writing at FAU. You might find her pen in Coastlines Literary Magazine.

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