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for seven days
we left him
on the lawn
near a flower
no english
in his spine
just asleep
like jesus
he is a cloud
admit it
Copyright © 2021 by Diana Marie Delgado. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 11, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.
After dinner, I’m mailed back to my father in a suitcase.
The tablecloth is edible. Gold is edible. God is edible too.
Don’t believe the words on the table—they’re not food.
I’m worried someone will walk in and take my plate away.
The men I grew up with ate white rice burritos.
Sometimes the stars feel nearby. Sometimes they write.
I wrote hard
on paper
at the bottom
of a pool
near a canyon
where the stars
slid onto their bellies
like fish
I wrote:
…
I went through
I turn on the radio and hear horses, girls becoming women after tragedy. Talk about dreams! His heart was covered in a thin shell the color of the moon, and when touched, I’d grow old. The best movies have a philosophy, Dorothy, after being subjected to witch-on-girl violence, is rescued. Someone hung himself on that set, a man, who loved, but couldn’t have a certain woman. Management said it was a bird. The best movies begin with an encounter and end with someone setting someone free.