Apricot Press

I see a murder in the cloudy skies:
my body is full of spoiled plums.
Grapes are delicate and the season will pay
for her tuition. I drag my spoiled limbs to work.

I see a murder near the trees when I drive back home.
I am scared my daughter will hate me
for leaving her
father and country behind me.
I grab wilted carnations and throw them out.

She knows better than to let death sleep in my house.
She’s once again angry at me
for not letting her in.
How do I explain to my daughter that her father is animal?

She carries his face.
Sad, brown eyes judge every move I make,
every grape I touch, every plum I eat.
Her body is so small for so much hate.

My daughter likes to chase crows, mesmerized by their feathers.
She doesn’t see their slender claws, deadly beaks.
She is a cat fascinated by their cawing.

I see a murder in my dreams.
I look for her, I chase her now
but she is hypnotized by crows.
I try to grab her but she’s too fast,
grows too fast, too distant.

A murder claws my heart out,
eats my tongue.
By the time my daughter finds me,
she has scratches and open wounds
all over her body.

My mother crossed rivers to give me peace;
I never knew it could be so lonely.
Learning to love on this american soil has broken more pieces in me
than the ones I’ve built.
I want to hold each other’s hearts with delicacy
acknowledging the power and honor to be in each other’s presence.

Why do we fight over petty things
like clothes and men?
Why must we restrict our bodies to small pieces of cloth
when our breasts deserve space.

I spent years hiding my tongue from the chicanos who said
I spoke Spanish too fast and chewed English incorrectly.

Why must we restrict our tongues
from the wildness they carry?

Let’s not take wildness out of our pupils,
the drive out of our veins, and the accent out of our mouths.
We weren’t born to be ordinary.

Photo credit: Kevin Mueller