What of a day when nothing forwards itself, when waiting for an event to ripen ends with neither the beauty nor the resolve I believe I deserve? And yet I go
Suitcases in the car, I found abuelo knelt by his bed, smelling of guaro, praying for his late son, Roberto, Homecoming Queen, who paraded in a pink dress even my tia (cross-herself)-admitted, looked fabulous.
Last night I watched The Unassisted Home Birth of Felix Alexander Pt. 2. I was most struck by the moment when the baby’s gray face emerged. Her partner was wiping her ass right above Felix’s gray little face. Frightening proximity of shit. Sent this to Ana Cecilia and she said: dear god. As in dear god—deliver me from this? It makes sense now, the whole saga of Eve.
Which are you going to do, small plovers? Run for cover, or take the plunge? Neither; you just hover at the shoreline, where waves smooth and resmooth the sand, til it’s as raw as scraped calfskin. Little poem makers . . . What are you writing, plovers? With your feet stamping cuneiform into the beach:
