My Name Is Gabriela #fiction #short story #poetic prose

My name is Gabriela. Papa used to call me Marie. Nobody understood why. Mama believed that Marie was the secret name of his mother who was an actress. As far as I know my grandmother’s name was Lucrecia, and she was no actress. She was born into a religious family. Her uncle was a bishop. I have no idea how Mama came up with this story about my grandmother being an actress and having a secret name.

I cannot write anymore. If you want me to do it, you will have to lock me in the library. Only there silences become words, and words become soft and puffy like two humongous winter breasts glowing in the last rays of a sweet and sticky sunset.

Yesterday, I got lost in the sacrality of the winter carnival with its colors and aromas of musicality, and its hands of poetry extended to the moon and beyond.

Oh, no, you locked the library door.

I start knotting the thin rosy bodies of the quiet words that make the four thousand volumes that reside in here. An aerial bridge extends over the world. Dressed in a full-moon regalia, I walk on it. Around me birds amalgamate the winds of the North with those of the South. I see stars floating on the seas. Blue meadows wave to me.

I cry. My tears reach the earth, and each and one of them grows into a new poem.

My name is Gabriela. Papa used to call me Marie….

Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Motto
I get drunk on love, charity, and passion. These are my professions.

I walk into the three days we spent together.

On the first day, a nude silence wraps around my lips. Shortly after I can hear the noise of wine poured into glasses.
The hour to get drunk on love has come.
I touch your skin and another you is born.
Birds invade the sky.
A banquet of candles floods the streets.
A white thread ties my blood vessels at the exact moment when a religious procession walks by.

On the second day, drunk on charity, my sights descend upon the earth.
The dirty hands of the woman…
Please continue reading WP here

My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here .
Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

Thank you!
Love.
Gabriela

@Gabriela Marie Milton

I can see the woman who assumes things. Every night she picks the flowers that I throw on the road: withered lilies of the valley. She wants to be me. She wants my blood. She does not know I rearranged the bell-shaped whites so no one else can breathe their sweet scents. No one else can be me. No one else can make you, you.

The woman puts the withered flowers in her bag.

A new moon rises over her left shoulder. Bad luck.

I shiver.

I rush to protect her.

I stumble.

Before he died my father said:

If you try to do justice to the wicked, you will forget to do justice to the virtuous. And if you forget to do justice to the virtuous you only work for yourself. That is the biggest sin of all.

I have to think again.

My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here .
Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.
image: Sandratsky Dmitriy; Shutterstock; [link]

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Motto
I get drunk on love, charity, and passion. These are my professions.

I walk into the three days we spent together.

On the second day, drunk on charity, my sights descend upon the earth.
The dirty hands of the woman who owns wells touch my skin.
I hear your voice.
I will not counsel her or belittle her desires.
All she will do is sell her fake dreams in the corner of an empty street for her entire life.
I forbid you.
By punishing her you would have ruined the very thing you set out to safeguard: our love.

On the third day, stars melt in our palms like soft grapes in winepresses.
The intimations of you and I, with their smell and softness of grass and late autumn roses, invade the room.
A convulsive joy impregnates your eyes.
Words have no pigments and no form. Their register sinks in gravity, shiny coil by shiny coil, musical key by musical key, sleepy touch by sleepy touch.
The perfection of the afternoon’s poplars blesses the air.
Possessed by passions, under the wing of a bird, we died three days ago.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

It was a sort of dematerialization that left behind the scent of orange blossoms and the vague memory of sultry afternoons growing by the margins of the pond: those afternoons in need for seed germination. I am sure you can remember them.

You and your love for me which have always looked for my blood. I told you I am air and therefore I do not have a body. I fill the space in which other bodies manifest themselves.

I am every breath you take in your nights of love when …please continue reading here

You can read my Spillwords Author of the Year Interview here.
My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here .
Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

Thank you.
Love.
Gabriela.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

image: Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]

Drops of you and me in the winter of our love.

Beneath my vocal cords, fingers knead the tongues of your kisses with the smell of wine.

Our souls dismembered by pasts that do not intersect; creators of a love as elusive as my adiós.

Tea leaves tell our future.

Your steps hang in the streets like the breasts of the earth under a bittersweet sky.

Your face grows washerwoman skin.

The land imprisons me.

I cry.

Las lágrimas del mar.

You and I.

My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here

image: Liliya Kulianionak; Shutterstock; [link]

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

If only I could put my palm into yours for one single sunset

when the autumn’s fingers smell corn silk,

and the eyelids of the sea cast spells on the cheeks of the stars.

Bathe with me at the end of the shore

where milk foam washes the feet of the children

and leaves traces of white shivers.

A pink conch tolls the waves announcing the homecoming of the chrysanthemums.

The pain of birth leaks prayers on your lips

like half naked Sundays leak monotony and coolness

on the yellow walls of the old city.

From the other side of your naked eyes,

I gather your tears in a wicker basket.

Laurel leaves hide under your pillow.

If only…

Autumn…

My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here .
Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

Thank you.
Love.
Gabriela.

image: Velenty, Shutterstock, oil painting.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

The smell of freshly baked bread in the nights when the ocean howls.

The moon’s eyes linger on my neck.

The kitchen is hot.

Your eyes rest on the buttons of my dress.

One eye faces the sacred.

The other craves for the profane.

I call into being the taste of that which is hidden below the existence.

Touches.

Self-indulgence.

The breath of a salty ocean on the skin.

Everything is here between primal and the infinity of possibilities: the epistemes of love; the essence of beauty; the whispers of a language you cannot understand.

You need me in your bones.

The moon needs me in her naked light.

My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here .
Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

image: Mariia aiiraM; Shutterstock; [link]

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

Bones, blood, flesh trapped in a brilliant moonlight.

The sand of the shore carried faraway by translucent tongues of water.

Around me the mint grows taller than the trees; lassitude turning from gold to red.

Eyes become the locus where the desert and the sea meet.

Imprinted on my body the number twelve; the twelve horses of the sun-chariot.

He, the seller of time, looks at me.

His voice penetrates the membranes of my cells.

One hour of impossible love for two dimes.

I, who can foresee the future, buy.

The hour wraps around my hips like a passion vine around a tree.

For a second you, the lover of the visible world, hesitate.

Streets inundated by the sweet smell of citrus.

Arms hugging a void.

You cannot eat that citrus and you cannot touch me.

Moonlight love, remind me, why did I buy you?

My poetry collection, Love Poems and Other Writings, available on Amazon here and featured in San Francisco Book Review and Manhattan Book Review.

image: Liliya Kulianionak; Shutterstock; [link]

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

I could detect the taste of the city on your lips.

The city and her languorous afternoon we spent in bed.

Every evening at 6 pm the chords of your guitar used to grow rose buds.

Sheer sunsets imprinted on our bodies.

Streets, labyrinths of gray cobblestones, dying in the orange light only to be revived later in the night by the steps of lovers desperately calling each other like song sparrows, brown streaks through each eye.

You said if I leave, I would become a stranger to the city. Did you mean to your lips?

I looked at the clock. Its hands showed no time. I answered:

How interesting. Strangers are always destined to replace.

By the little colored stall where ice cream was sold in the summer your guitar shed its notes: rose petals in the remnants of a cold wind.

excerpt from my book in progress: Remembrance of Love [working title]

My poetry collection, Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, is available on Amazon here.
Thank you.
Love.
Gabriela

@short- prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

image: agsandrew; Shuterstock; [link]

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