Saturday, February 14, 2015

Three Roses

He brings me three roses
in a small yellow vase
and he says, I hear women forgive 
a lot if you bring them flowers.
He says

You are a unique,
you challenge me, and
I’m so glad I found you.
He says I want to spend
the rest of my life with you

and I want to hear that from you
before I invest anymore into this.
I look him in the eye
and the last 5 years fast forward
on the screen between us.

I remember more than he does.
His gaze moves off and 
he says Obviously I'm not going 
to like what you have to say.
I am silent, rubbing my nose

with the unscented longstems.
His alcohol droopy eyes
attempt another focus, his balance 
shift tilts a little too far and 
I try to remember where I left my keys.

I really do not want to do this now, 
I really do not and thankfully, this time, 
he believes my praise of the roses, is hungry
enough to be distracted by dinner, 
and after, passes out in his chair.

Sunday, February 8, 2015


She leans forward in her chair by the window,
studies my face and asks, Who are you?
I remind her, again, I am my mother's daughter.
She just shakes her head, But you are so... old.
I nod. Here in this tiny old house where she was born 
I am forever 8 with crooked teeth and scabby knees.
She looks out the window at her neighborhood,
now just the hood, watching what used to be
spin passed the place that has always been hers. 
I watch it with her until she asks again.

Published 2014 in La Palabra: The Word Is Woman