Four Years After Diagnosis
Suddenly, rain. Our heads
bowed together like monks
in this hot green place.
I study the slow script
of her movements. The cross
and uncross of her legs,
fingers forking together,
pulling apart. Secret dialect
of her face—a firefly flick
in the iris, lips curling
like kelp. Speak, mother.
Your daughter is listening.
Credit
Copyright © 2019 Angela Narciso Torres. This poem was originally published in Quarterly West. Used with permission of the author.
Date Published
01/08/2019