Victor got a real sense of power from making his own raisins. He’d buy pounds and pounds of grapes and leave them to dry on the kitchen table. Theresa didn’t want to hear about her ex-husband’s cancer. Not on Father’s Day. She took a train all night to have breakfast with her cousin. All Sunday she rode the train back. Once Martin’s wife had left, he decided to take advantage of her space. He built a sauna where her closet was, sat there every morning, to read the paper and Buddha. One night Helga wore her prettiest dress, though she knew he wouldn’t be there. She drank dry white, got drunk (she was on a diet), and fell down. Later he saw the holes in her pantyhose. María was usually bumping into furniture. Each time she got closer to what she wanted. "What do you want from me?" "Nothing," he replied, so she took off and felt like migrating birds. But many.
Poem previously published in Fence magazine. Reprinted by permission.