Writers Showcase

Cynthia Rodríguez

Dark Truths/White Lies

When I speak the truth,
the truth gets stolen.
As it comes out and flows,

it’s grabbed a hold
by stranger hands
from stranger friends

and loves, and relatives.
To think I’d put my trust
in those same hands!

Those hands around my throat,
they clasp and choke.
Still say it was my fault.

Ignore the marks.
Their fingerprints
100% match.

In the autopsy,
found DNA
as signatures of those

who chose to bury
dark truths
in favour of white lies.

What lies beneath
the pebbles in their path
is grim, but real.

To dance with the devil,
you need to push some people
down the stairs.

To replace your dark truths
with white lies,
you have to chop some heads off.

But speakers of the truth,
like chicken, run for a while
after you think you’re done with them.

Digimon Borders

“Never trust a Tory,
nor a Tory in disguise”,
there are still so many cynics
keeping on their flower crowns.

Speaking up about acceptance,
when they reject all enquiries.
Abusing their power, inherited,
crying on buses, cars and Raleighs.

Crocodiles under the rain,
alligators in the sewers,
calls to action for their lives,
only their woes, not those of others,

and, of course, not those they cause.
“It’s me or them, me or those beneath”,
reports that share too many factors:
bloodprints on funny-tinged sheets,

family hair, looms from their parents
and their parents’ parents’ parents.
Before you’re proud of your red cities,
think arteries, veins, capillaries:
check if they secretly run blue.

Metal Straws

Time is running,
the cars are not.
They used to swim,
now they barely float.

Salmons in a current
going the wrong way around.
There’s a deadline coming.
We’re not ready now.

We just do our best,
but it’s not enough.
The kings take a dump,
blame it on the pawns.

This will not suffice,
with no fumes of ours,
metal straws ablaze,
soggy paper towels.

It’s not us who have
power in our hands
to soothe the Amazons
or freeze icebergs back,

to rewind the clocks
and to pay the tax
upper echelons
swallow in their yachts.

Onus, heavy stones
on our scratchy backs.
We migrate barefoot,
their Ferraris flash

in the blink of an eye.
On their helicopters,
they commute to mansions
on the other side of town.
Somehow, we’re the ones to blame.

Our austerity will not save
what their luxury lifestyle
has thrown down the drain,
and our passage through planet Earth
will be washed off from history
like tears in the rain.

Mexican-British writer and performer, constantly experimenting with the possibilities of spoken word. International, intersectional and interdisciplinary, using poetry to convey everyday realities that may remain untold in media; particularly about feminist and queer issues, cultural and countercultural shock, liminality and self-preservation.

Based in Leicester, proud Mouthy Poets alum, frequenter of open mic events in the East Midlands and beyond. Rodríguez has opened for renowned artists such as Lydia Towsey, Caroline Bird, Hannah Swings, La JohnJoseph and Jamie Thrasivolou. 

Their debut poetry collection, Meanwhile, is out on 7th September 2020, via Burning Eye Books.