Let Us Consider

Let us consider the poet suffering from anorexic phrases

and shriveled insignificance; the orphaned grandfather clock

borrowing a last tick and the snubbed sock in the dryer,

warm and dry but, to a home, uninvited.

Let us consider the bee that squandered its stinger and staggers; the woman with the name of a flower because her mother’s name was Gladiola and her grandmother’s name was Ambriosa, and her great grandmother’s name was Hyacinth. Let us consider the woman had a daughter named Edna. Let us consider she had pollen freckles.

Let us consider there are no considerations.

They were in the cereal box you spilled all over the floor this morning.

Generations of considerations spilled and wept.

Snapshot

Snapshot

When I remember my mother, I remember her paranoia.

But in the Polaroid, she sits on a white plastic chair

Wearing a sombrero, eating birthday cake,

Presumably content.

Stains

Our two paths meet. Intersect. Our subconscious speaks, sparks, strikes. We are entangled, separation implausible, impossible.

Our two paths diverge. Derail. Words of wreckages slip, spill into our morning coffee.

Stain.

The sun masks the day. The moon masks the night. But we, we must wear our own faces.

Esperanza

Esperanza

A city of splintered hearts and scorched illusions,

Of dirt roads specked with petals of cactus flowers,

Where madness echoes in canyon whispers

And rain rises at dusk

Summoning buried secrets.

This is Esperanza,

Where amputated dreams wander phantom roads

And desires are already rooted guamúchil trees.

Monday Morning

Monday Morning

She walked in wearing one flip flop and carrying the other. She ordered a jalapeño bagel and sat down, cross-legged on the wooden chair as if summoning the Gods. The woman behind the pastry counter scowled and pointed to the sign taped with masking tape to the window: Socks and shoes required for service. It hung next to a cardboard Help Wanted sign. It was official. The woman would hold her bagel hostage. After all, it was Monday morning.

EPITAPH FOR PRICKLY

Epitaph for Prickly

Remember the time you went to Arizona and brought me back a cactus? And we named it Prickly? Well, Prickly died. I know what you’re going to say. Can a cactus even die? How do you kill a cactus? Sure, they survive the desert and even bloom once in a while. But apparently, down here in sunny California, you drop the thing once and it dies. Yes, I dropped it. It fell on the carpet. I think it even did a little bounce. I put it back in its pot and even watered the damn thing, which you think would have been a treat, but apparently, Prickly didn’t like treats. She turned yellow and then brownish and I had to throw her out once she started smelling. I’m pretty sure a cactus isn’t supposed to smell. Well, maybe a dead one does. It’s funny. We named her Prickly, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t even have prickles. Maybe that’s why she died. She didn’t like her name.