by Ashley-Luisa Santangelo

In the early evening hours
I shake off
shower droplets,
bushing my hair.

The fogged mirror
obstructs my face in odd places;
my portrait is missing an eye,
its partnering brow,
the curved edge of a jaw.

My nails
protrude with imperfect archs
long and resilient to the strain.

In the living room
you are there - my Rivera -
ready to clothe me with
smothering rags;
el abrigo de lana gruesa
tejida a partir sus suprestos
es aspera sobre la
camisa de algodon,
roscado de sus
palabras punzadas.

A suit. Thick,
angular in its bulk,
causing me forgetfulness.

Me convierto en el traje.
Me hago el hombre.
I am not a woman
with curves and contours.

At dinner,
I sit at the table by your right side,
watching the driblets of soup
bubble and slip at
the rim of your lips.

I fail to recognize your words.

Cual es tu tema?
Are you for the
communist rule over leftovers?
or do you swing with the majority
over the division of carrots and onions?
Perhaps you are a light switch politician
fully for peppers that rot your sensitive organs
at different hours of the day.
Tal vez no con pimientos.

Tal vez solamente con las tapadas.

Later finished,
The dishes sit empty,
glazed in oil and broth;
crumbs pattern that
rough wooden table as
wine soaks into the grain.

With two hands
you separate me.
Hanging up my will
on the black iron hook
by the splintering doorframe.

There is a haze in your eyes,
as the rest of my being is
folded, creased, and
thrust under your thick arm.

When you are settled
beneath the stained ceiling,
wrapped in nebulous light,
you peruse me - the remaining
compilation of print and soy paper,
something to rustle,
glance at, and disregard.