Monday, April 9, 2012


...Here are two older poems that appeared in an online literary journal out of Mexico City called Ofi Press:


Nobody sings.
We feel our way through dark clouds and cracks.
I remember you wanted to love me.
Those were full days,
cherry nickels.
When your Toyota backfired,
we bawled from laughter.

Now the western winds are spreading
wild fires
and we are confused pedestrians,
weary from walking the same space,
treading foul air,
disobeying every road sign
on our way to ruin.


We take the photo in the same place each year,
by the grand fountain,
same positions,
shortest to tall
as if there’s nothing else to mark the time
but our slacking skins
and a different set of sweaters.

We are his daughters.
We sang sweet notes and invented excuses for being women
instead of ladies.
Nights we fought in silence with locked doors
and shattered mirrors.
“No one got hurt,” we’d always say.
A lawyer, a lesbian, a surgeon and one hack.

The photographer prompts, “On three, say…Father!”
and we do
because Mom’s asked us,
because she’s standing there
remembering him again,
loving Dad like we should have.

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