Poems ✍️

Busy visions of a childhood and her ghosts,
Words that linger in a poor man’s clutch, as she looks
Away perpetually, browns stems quivering over
Her children, but she is out of leaves and warmth

Sexy vision of catastrophe, how you loved my gifts
Of flea markets for a year, but could not entirely give
Up your sailors of Mexico, and the pretty cannibalisms
You put into your bed across the train tracks at night;
While he still doesn’t satisfy you, you are the personification
Of any soul, but it wouldn’t be right to say your name again,
Not on anyone’s birthday- though I will not be waiting
Anymore like a rabbit in his green hutch or rock garden
In the little yard I remember bordered by rattlesnakes
And aloes- Like the urban legends that exist in the
Highways of gossiping sky: I showed your aunt the hickies
You gave me as we made love for the year that is over;
I gave your sisters and more of your cousins fireworks.
And now I am left counting other butterflies who migrated
Across the orchards you abandoned, while my mother
Falls down in some mock Pieta, a wasp or some power
Cord stinging her foot again with its preschool lavishing,
As she dries the clothes of my childhood underneath a thunderstorm
That is already passing.