Marian Urquilla


My day of rushing ends in an hour's crawl.
Around one more curve and incline, the Bay 
surprises on the left side. The crammed highway
lanes seem to roll unceasing from the small crest.


Through the opening of breath, I see waves,
waves of invaders, of grieving wanderers.
I seize the steering wheel. I breathe centuries.
I know villages disease churches plantations 
factories. Blood. The hills are green. Traffic thrums.  


The fog rolls in over the dark, steady mountains.
Even inside the car, I can feel the air changing.
I remember Tonantzin’s return, manifesting humbly,
whispering, I am still here. I am all the mothers. 
Her love, a cloak of stars, a mordant for survival. 
I breathe centuries. The waves fade. Traffic thrums.




In the Turning

Once from a blue hammock
I listened. The slow murmur
of leaves filling the valley.
Deer scrabbling to loot
the blueberries. Hybrid
dahlias double blooming.
The sky laced into filamented
streams. My breath rocked
my spine. The wind rocked
the house. My body floated
in the turning, the world
one congruent wave.





Marian Urquilla is a writer and leadership coach. She lives in Northern California with her wife and stepdaughter. She can be reached at: