Patricia Guzman

Who hasn’t eaten over the kitchen sink

Letting the faucet trickle truths suppressed

Between mouthfuls of charred rice, promises for drink

Watching the same bougainvillea grow nonetheless.

Meanwhile, sirens broadcast another funeral event

I am not invited—though the mail is yet to arrive.

That will be tomorrow, when the morning is spent

Vacuuming little pictures of past lovers bestride

Benign molecules that rest on my carpet helping me forget.

Or the next day, as I watch the mockingbirds

Play house, the scattering of seeds over a marigold sunset

I yearn like a cat perched at the window-sill yearns

For rays of sun scratched deep into my back

Like dishes and knives carefully placed on the drying rack.


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