Jon Pineda Poems

On the tip of a hill, the silhouette is of something not of this world,
the body silent in the birth of another shadow, swelling still

among stars & veins. The sun dropping below the mountains left
...

Between the train's long slide and the sun
ricocheting off the sea, anyone
would have fallen silent in those words,
the language of age in her face, the birds
...

A basket of apples brown in our kitchen,
their warm scent is the scent of ripening,

and my sister, entering the room quietly,
takes a seat at the table, takes up the task
...

We thought nothing of it, he says,
though some came so close to where we slept.

I try to see him as a boy,
back in the Philippines, waking
...

Let us take the river
path near Fall Hill.

There we will negotiate
an outcrop with its silveredv
...