Poetry

*On August 9th 1914, British troops departed to Germany for WWI. By the end of the barbaric war, 3-4 million women were estimated to have been widowed. 
 
Baby August has told her first untruth. 
Buds bloom no more to meet a genial world. 
The widow seizes all the pendant flowers  
with which she sought to bid her spouse farewell.
An ave before he was enmeshed in war.
Candles alive to witness one more love 
have danced themselves to death and killed their flame. 
She cannot rid her coverlet of wrinkles. 
She cannot clasp a glass of wine without  
scowling askance at its momentous shade.  
She distrusts the cup; trusts more in malaise,
distrusts the very fairness of her skin. 
She finds her pallor does not need her hug
to blanch her husband; fear can do as much. 
Azures darken with the smoke of chimneys 
whilst vaguely through an open door, she hears 
her curtains, bandying with winds of fate. 
He breathes, he breathes—can she be widowed thus? 
She strips her newly funereal bed,
dethroning love through taking down his roses. 
Yet neglecting some petals on her sheets 
which mourned their king’s expulsion when— 
having washed them too—mistakenly—they  
tinged her covers in a cruel crimson. 
Then when she made some play of them in hand
the reddest of the petals poured their flush. 
Purpled sinks, bloodied hands but—of whose blood? 
She has read her husband’s fate upon their walls.
Interpreting the muteness of her home
and wordless corridors as signs to know,
that though he breathes—she is a widow.

I lie in bed no sleep in sight
More awake with the moon than I was with the sun
The next day closer than the last
Shows that hold no mysteries to me whispering in the background
Craving things that my mind wants
But that my body will regret
Cheddar Chex Mix
Reese’s Cups
A man
The candle’s flame dances in the distance
Releasing a painfully nostalgic aroma
I was once just a woman
I took 45-minute showers
Survived off saltines and ramen
Had nightly meetings with Mary Jane
No side-stepping Lego landmines
Or llamas in pajamas
So now the moon and I
We enjoy the stillness of the night
My time becomes my own
My name is nonexistent
My space is substantial
My peace is protected
Tomorrow I may be slow to wake
Tonight, I have no regrets
I smile
I laugh
I remember
I hope
For just 10 more minutes
Or maybe 15
Before I know it
Tomorrow will come all too soon
And this time I have
It can only come with the moon

A shack where a house once stood
Shingles that hang on by a thread
This was once a home

Built by muscled men
Carefully crafted to withstand anything
Except time

A porch where many once sat
Is now a stiff wind from extinction
Rusted rockers turned from green to brown

A screen door shredded
From temple to tetanus

The roof appears to cave
While the foundation holds firm
A home that once slept six

A time capsule
Full of firsts and lasts
Nothing left but ruins and

Memories clinging to the insides
The house is empty
But the home still stands

A pile of dirt dressed up in a mountain’s clothing 
A working man’s pile of rocks
but a ball and chain for the drowning man
a bucket of cement spilled across flowering dirt
but the girl is known for crying wolf 
so a mountain has become a molehill

while the dogs come at the blow of whistle
tearing and biting at scraps of meat 
slavering mouths that consume
the yellow pages of journalist notes
as a foremen brings the hammer down 

the coal burns hotter than any other fuel 
but oil is expensive these days 
worth more than the average dollar 
now that’s a molehill mountain 
dressed in expensive leather for the fire 

a working man’s pile of coal
the color of lungs is worth 
the switch from red to black
more money for the non-worker 
whose check balances with zeros lined in gold
this mountains nothing more than a molehill
pick yourself up by your bootstraps
 
 

I’m calling for fries
over the counter full
of fried food and grease
while the chefs ignore me.
Someone taps me twice
on the shoulder as tears salt 
my lips. “What?” I snap, 
searching for a coworker’s face. 
The old woman from my table 
takes a step back. “Excuse me?” 
she says, her wrinkles contorting. 
“I’m so sorry, ma’am, I thought 
you were my coworker” I try
to explain. “The women’s restroom
is out of toilet paper.” She walks 
off to clear her plate. I let one more
drop roll down my cheek as I say 
goodbye to any chance at a tip
and turn back to face the head chef. 
“How hard is it to give me some damn
fries?” I continue yelling. When I clock 
out that night I write in my diary. 
I can’t remember one detail of my night 
that doesn’t erase me.

The ticket stabber is over-
flowing on hour ten of my shift. 
“¡Vamos pendeja, vamos!” Miguel
yells over the counter. I flip off 
the food heater and stick three
ice cubes down my bra, then stack 
table 34’s plates on my left arm. 
“Lex, I need a follow” she runs 
over and grabs the last basket of 
chili cheese tots. An hour later, 
the counter is empty and wiped
clean of grease. I restock sauces in
the walk-in and sit down for the first
time today. I clock out at 10:45, say 
my rounds of “Goodnight” to the last 
standing servers. Pepper spray clutch
in hand, I fumble for my keys in the dim 
parking lot. The silence in the passenger
seat is my favorite part of a double-day.
I pull into the gravel driveway, frowning
at the orange-lit room next to mine. 
I knock twice on the purple door so 
my baby sister knows it’s just me.
“Can you read me a bedtime story?”