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My mother in law raised seven men.
She toiled in the kitchen, warmed
potatoes in huge portions
dashed with salt and self-doubt.

My mother married two men.
The first one fled at day-
he gave her a daughter who ran away
with a man no one has met.

My grandmother disliked men. Especially her own—
A man who was in love with fifty women,
his shaft failed at the end. On his deathbed,
he asked for the hand of the first woman he failed.

My mother in law is waiting
for the leaves to turn green, for the oven to beep,
for a son to sleep. My mother takes a call
from a daughter she never sees.
For long, she embraced a thought

all loves shall hurt. Both women does so in silence,

as my grandmother did
when she felt on her palm
a man´s last heartbeat.


doors open with a hand of a ghost, a ghost
long gone and walked

count the sun with your hand, 
and the only words you know,
and the only people you say hello
the rumblings in the gut is louder
than the street below. 


dear doctor,
i need to tell you,
the cold wakes me up in the morning. i sleep
half dreaming, my eyelids slightly shiver.
my self is an overflowing cup
of a thousand, if not more, things to say
but i couldn't tell anyone.
my fiance is continents, oceans away,
he wouldn't pick up the phone. i said before
that i need help, but he thinks i'm acting out
a girl. i have friends, i don't want them to carry my weight. after all,
they are heavy enough themselves. so you see, 
i'm burying myself slowly
under a mountain of untold stories,
unshed tears, unshared worries.
what could be worse?


How do you know when feelings have ended
I have been here before, but I don’t remember how it was
Is it the same game of tag, pulling in the heart
Back then, I wanted to fall in love, create a storm in my blood,
I want a fire that shoots beyond the sky. I was mad. Until now, I am mad.
So I told him I’m on my way—away from him.
And now, I am here again in the act of shredding the strings of my gut—
what is to lose, what is to stay.
I have been lining those strands that weaved me in, untangled them carefully
so I can see but I am blind. I have tied myself fatally when I’m no magician
to pay for the shards of glass that I broke on my way to you.
And now I walk barefoot on them

—away from you. 


poems are abandoned, never finished

What to do

The dishes were unwashed, for twelve hours
The sink is brimming with sin
What were you doing, rolling?
Like that plastic you roll down, each time
What to do, you’re tired of cooking
And my legs are not flexing.
We wait for the onions to cut themselves,
The broom to start sweeping,
Turn the heat down, the fish is burned
like my crotch—a convenient store,
a fire hose. or are you too spent
to move, after all it’s a woman’s job—
what else is not. along with pouring the self
into tea cups. I wish the smoke from your mouth
blows dust away from the corners
of our walls, the ceiling, that room in my head
where I keep little sanity.