Nathalie Molina has decided the word that she most enjoys of late is futurist. She's a linguaphile and an avid traveler, a consummate modernist, admirer of Kali, motorcycles, clean lines and Sufi Dancemeditation.

Two Poems (June 20, 2010. Issue 18.)

Matriarch

Mine is a matriarchal family,
inside that seed implanted in me
live the Woorani, the Mosuo, the mother,
a woman, a goddess
my uterine ancestry, my Cherokee blood
my little bit of ancient Egypt,
and Kurichiyas spices from Kerala,
my Nubian shadow dancing alongside a hidden Hopi spirit.
My nomadic Tuareg tendencies come from that seed,
and the roots that cling to me, no matter how far I run
are those Sumerian bloodlines,
urging me to write, to express, to reach
OUT.

A matriarchy without the matriarch
the looming inevitability unfolds in front of me
all roads, winding and painstakingly built
eventually lead to the same unfolding.

A matriarchy without the matriarch
we gather and place our conflicts there
where she cannot see them, behind the feigned
smiles, the familial politeness, and the sensation of
impending implosion.

A matriarchy without the matriarch
she was shelter and she was nourishment
flora and fauna, fire and liquid,
welcome and unwelcome, conflict unresolved.

A matriarchy without the matriarch
the tears are absent, the voice is strong
just as she would have wanted, would have insisted
the power is in the fierceness, the violence
is in the voice.

A matriarchy without the matriarch
the long line of ill-tempered, late night card playing elders
will end with you, the lullabies from my infancy,
the dresses sewn at all hours of insomniac nights.

A matriarchy without the matriarch
a ship gliding over nothing, and I am rushing to be still
singing a song of tears without weeping, floating through
silent screams and death without dying.

Cocktail

A cocktail
of vodka and pears
but we’ve run out of pears

A cocktail
Of grey goose, a pinch of pear juice
and cranberries that will give headaches
allergic reactions

A cocktail
of faint traces of guilt and the now-familiar silence,
persistent distance that will rob you of sleep
and serve as a reminder: honesty will be
a challenge, a cross.

A cocktail
of poets and double dog dares
that mirror back to you, the unmentionable
the spectrum of extremes that you jump between
looking for balance
avoiding the middle.

A cocktail
of biting lips, modern exiles and insatiable urges
where excitement and wonder once lived
and fast motorbikes now ride,
without expectation
or gratification.

A cocktail
of resistance and enemies inside the inner circle
the ones whose genes you share, whose children you carry
in those little spaces within the cracks
of your impenetrability.

A cocktail
of the desire to coast down the twisting mountain road you paved yourself
or brave into a new one, with a sun-stained rear view, little chance of survival
and even less chance of safety.

A cocktail
of words
of freedom
airplanes and helmets
none of which will bring peace
when you need it.
none of which will hold
in the crash.