LONG DISTANCE, UP CLOSE by Diannely Antigua

after Saturn Devouring His Son by Francisco Goya


Sometimes, I’ll go to the mountain. I count when I’m on 
the edge, three days of bliss between the plane rides. I met 
the family, I met the mother, the father, the sister. I met 
the bathroom mirror after sex, the particular drunkenness 
of seeing my reflection in a new place. I didn’t say 
I love you like I’d planned. I even practiced for the moment 
in my own bed. To the drool on my pillow after sleep, I said 
I love you. To the stale spider in the corner of the room, I love you, 
each of its eight legs dangling like straw. Sometimes, 
I want to dangle myself from every hook on the wall and say 
Look at me, I’m so pretty for Daddy. So pretty, like a painting 
of limbs in Daddy’s mouth. Up close, I’m a cluster 
of brushstrokes. Far away, I’m a woman with too much to lose. 

Diannely Antigua is a Dominican American poet and author of the collections Ugly Music (YesYes Books, 2019) and Good Monster (Copper Canyon Press, 2024). From 2022-2024, she was Poet Laureate of Portsmouth, NH. She currently teaches at University of New Hampshire as the Nossrat Yassini Poet in Residence.

2 March 2026