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Literature Text
Her thick, peasant hands
run along a pregnant Pisces,
she feels for the full moons
inside of its gut.
She slides a fat knife
that we've had for years,
de-scaling our dinner,
as she has many, many times.
I watch with childish cat-eyes,
from under a tangle of curly, blonde locks.
The sun glimmers through
the wooden lattice that covered
the entrance of our
open backyard kitchen,
I breathe in the afternoon-air,
moist with soil and fresh grass.
She smiles at my curiosity.
"esta tiene pescaditos", she notes.
As if it's skin were as clear as a crystal ball.
A swift chop
and the fish's head has separated
from its body,
it makes me think of a magician's
beautiful assistant.
I pick it up and poke at it's dead-eyes.
I reach over
and softly touch its tail.
This prompts a wish
inside of me:
a pastel pink clam bra,
long hair and a pearly tail for legs.
She makes us
Huevos de pescado rustido.
I know where the fish eggs
came from
But it tastes like it was made
in a land where unicorns frolic.
run along a pregnant Pisces,
she feels for the full moons
inside of its gut.
She slides a fat knife
that we've had for years,
de-scaling our dinner,
as she has many, many times.
I watch with childish cat-eyes,
from under a tangle of curly, blonde locks.
The sun glimmers through
the wooden lattice that covered
the entrance of our
open backyard kitchen,
I breathe in the afternoon-air,
moist with soil and fresh grass.
She smiles at my curiosity.
"esta tiene pescaditos", she notes.
As if it's skin were as clear as a crystal ball.
A swift chop
and the fish's head has separated
from its body,
it makes me think of a magician's
beautiful assistant.
I pick it up and poke at it's dead-eyes.
I reach over
and softly touch its tail.
This prompts a wish
inside of me:
a pastel pink clam bra,
long hair and a pearly tail for legs.
She makes us
Huevos de pescado rustido.
I know where the fish eggs
came from
But it tastes like it was made
in a land where unicorns frolic.
Literature
To the Child
To the Child
To the child we never got to know
To the child who's eyes never opened
Who's laugh we never heard
Who's voice never spoke
Who's touch we never felt
To the child we will never see grow
To the child taken too soon
To that wonderful child that lives with angels
You are a child blessed with love
Know as you watch from that golden heaven each day
Everyday we live on we will love you
We will carry you with us as we go forward
To that blessed child
From the parents and siblings
Aunts and uncles and cousins
The grandparents
From everyone who you've touched
To that child may that love reach you
And may that love help guide us all
Literature
mother
mother with whistle, button and mace
drops her weapons to the hospital floor
and screams.
father rejoices - a princess! i'll teach her
everything.
mother still screams.
father, laughing - i pity the boy who asks for her hand.
mother holds baby and shrieks.
father's skin crawls - why aren't you happy?
mother screams. mother howls. mother, inconsolable
(everyone dies but girls are always
born dead)
Literature
The Devil Is In The Details
I am from loneliness; I am from flashing lights and dim lamps,
shouts and he-man-protection-strength in front of a brown couch.
I am from snow castles built by mythical sober giants
and destroyed by real rain and poured beer cans;
from nightmares and contingents of stuffed animal sentries.
I am from sawdust. The scent of creation and reverberation.
I am from the solidity of a bookshelf that holds Sunday Comics;
I am from the memories of my father reading “Calvin and Hobbes”.
I am from fried chicken and picnics and grease and broken plates.
I am from having everything swept under the table and forgotten
until my father is thirs
Suggested Collections
Magic exists. This poem is for my grandmother Leonor.
© 2014 - 2024 sherbetblooms
Comments6
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What a great tribute