A poem by Andres Rojas


Of us, our eyes
cameras by proxy,
arms to reach and grasp,
a voice to signal
all is well
or not, or rather was
         or wasn’t

fourteen minutes back,
distance split by speed
plus whatever time
a circuit takes
to process what is,
parse it, make it

sense, or try,
as nows keep adding
thens to be attended to:
I see, I touch,
I am, or rather was,
never to catch up to whatever
         has been.

Andres Rojas was born in Cuba and came to the US at age 13. He’s been writing poetry since then and is working towards his first collection, Animal Blood.