The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email

Home: A collection of poems by Catalina Cano


Home is the smell of brewing coffee

impregnating chipped brick walls,

the women cracking the eggs,

making sure the dogs are fed

and that

even the frequenting birds

receive their daily bread.

As the men continue to sleep,

I silence the juxtaposition

of the way the sun drops dead

at the realization that everything its warmth caresses

will one day die,

and the habit of using cupped hands

 as ashtrays

on lazy Sunday afternoons.

I once dreamt I was a meadowlark

and I lingered over the emaciated backbone of my broken motherland;

all I know is

that I´ve never seen any of us asleep in public,

we´ve never really been able to


or decompress,

or let our guard down,

not when their famished hands

are bound to reach

and take

everything left behind,



the way they did when

over five-hundred years ago

they told the remaining crowds

this land was theirs to take.


My loneliness is an orchard full of rosary beads.

An intoxicated plantation of foul fruit

ready to nourish the insomniac dramaturge.

My loneliness is an egotistical proprietor.

An experienced kleptomaniac ready to take

that which the feeble can no longer disguise.

My loneliness enjoys performing inharmonious arias.

Raucous words and malicious truths

ready to implant themselves on tender skin.

My loneliness does not have a shelter to call its own.

It lurks among obsolete recollections

and blossoms underneath fractured spines.

My loneliness intonates anthems in a slurred speech.

Spellbinding and confining with unavoidable incantations

forever to linger like a hickory tree on an Autumn morning.

Blue Fountainhead

I know I flourished into this existence a month too early

just so I could step on premade train tracks

and yell at the approaching train to stop.

I know everything I had was blue,

blue crib, blue clothes, blue stroller, blue bedsheets too.

I know everything I have today remains blue,

blue heart, blue words, blue thoughts, blue songs to hum and sway to.

Home is the smell of coffee

seeping into blue-tinted walls and windowpanes

that slowly welcome the sun´s lethargic advancing warmth

for which migrating parrots wait on the branches of our garden´s pine trees.

Home is bubble-wrapped hearts

and small talk of the prosperous blue-red north everyone secretly wants

to encounter,

to obliviate,

to dissolve,

to welcome them home.

I was once told that us, humans, are the only animals

with the power to deny.

Then I remember that we have been denied

ever since they took everything they came to take,

leaving our blue lagoons empty bullet shells.

I suppose this is the result

of denying ourselves

for pleasure,

for pride,

for the idea of dissipating and merging into the better side.