Valentina Cano

Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time she has either reading or writing. Her work has appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Magnolia's Press, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals and will appear in the upcoming editions of A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, Death Rattle, Danse Macabre, Subliminal Interiors and Perhaps I'm Wrong About the World. You can find her here:


Three Poems (April 20, 2011. Issue 27.)


He made the discovery
like he uncovered his rousing body
after a deep sleep,
forcing it out of its lair,
poking it into the sunlight
where it could not drowse.
He pulled that film of discovery,
tugged at it like a sticky dough,
its edges grasping on to the pockets
between his fingers.
Finding that hate
that played through his bones was
a shock, a plunge into
a cave of ice where his fingers
could only scrape slivers of frozen water.
He sniffed and wrapped himself
in the canopy of the sky,
hoping the memory
of that cinnamon wrath
would tumble off like an old scarf.

Vicious Cycle

I seal the drawer with a hand
that trembles like a fleshy toy top.
It gyrates and spins as
I place the wrapper on the pile
that lives like an oily pool,
stagnant, soiled by the clumsy
landing of flies.
I snap my hand back,
a snake head rearing in fright,
I taste it still, on the grooves
under my tongue, those
shelves of guilt.
I cannot manage this.
I know.
One more hour spent knocking bones
around and I'll be a puddle
on the floor.
A gelatinous mound that is
too gone to bother swallowing.
That can only suck the floorboards
in pathetic rhythm.


Now comes the moment
I'll tear you like a ragged
piece of paper.
I'll poke at your binding,
I'll twist the roots of your ancestors,
large, tusk-like creatures who
shook the sky with their heads of leaves.

Now I'll become what you
never expected. Never wanted.
A triangle of silver,
a goblet that refuses to be filled.
I'll morph into the animal
that digs in your garden,
holes that ooze long shadows
on your trimmed lawn.

Now you'll see
the statue that will not
come to life.

The Legendary