Poem-a-Day

Aquí tenemos lo que quiere, Corazón;
The market ladies touch my arm, Cielo,

Pase adelante. A tomato pulses in her palm.
My heart, my mother’s heart, still they argue.

If the phone calls, flowers & fruit I sent
In my stead could ever be enough. She said, Don’t come.

I didn’t argue. I shouldn’t have listened to my mother’s
Words, but the blade. How the scorpion tail of her voice

Speared its own pain. Every day, another flower
For the altar, the blanket of condolences. New Year’s,

After the call, I stayed in bed, Cielo, the sun could not
Shine without my mother. Pull the curtain.

The stage must be hidden from us. Terror
Of the spotlight & audience roar; she fell

To her knees on the white tile. Mirela, Corazón,
Her body collapsed on the tiles; I was not there

To press the crease of worry from her brow
As I’d done for my father. Cielo, how the unsaid

Presses down on our human bodies. I was not there.
She would’ve fallen through my hands. Knock it out

With reason, but the heart does not negotiate, there is only
El ir y venir, Corazón, el llevar y traer. Where was I as she felt

The burst in her chest, the memory ripe. Fireworks
Crack & singe, beating the black dome over a beach.

The rupture marks her final place, the broken white tile.
The pounding drives it in. Contra martillo y clavo, no ganas.

You cannot win an argument with a hammer & nail.