Vanessa Díaz

Photo on 10-11-14 at 1.29 PM #4


Vanessa Díaz is from Huntington Park, California. She studied at the University of California, Davis. She lives in Los Angeles.



The body is a dimming psalm and you’ve got

a spine made out of fists, even though you’re

telling everyone otherwise. I see the steel there

even though once,  someone told me I have a

face like the rain – se cae y se cae y se cae.


Somewhere there are monuments to sadness,

some red rivulet streaming thru and thru. But

not you. You say bring the fucking revolution,

even though your foot is growing a rain forest,

even though I am combing out your hair.


 A veces se me olvida mi llanto, pero el tuyo no.

Your eyelashes are hummingbirds. In bed, you’re

a moon, a sickle of pain. I’m puking up all my teeth

and still, you’re laughing. Your fingers part my

face; you carve me out. You know:


what has crept into your ribcage squeezes

as you sleep. And you know: there are words for

darknesses the body cannot keep.  And you say:


why should this be anything other

than the bloom of a mouth, a streak of hair,

a rash of color, a stubborn fate. See this, the new

world and old world clenched in your palms.

© The Acentos Review 2015