February 2021

Good Ole Days

Chickens cawing before my eyes open. 

Groan, rub my eyes. 

Cover my head with thick down comforter, 

smelling coffee stains.

My mother is gonna wanna kill me when she sees them. 

First name, middle name. 

Coffee with just a splash of milk, enough to cool it down for the Chadborn Coffee Chug 

My father’s way. 

Except, he doesn’t spill it on his sheets. 

Forcing my eyes open, adjusting to the gray morning light pouring from my open window

Nine acres stretching, merging into county road on the other side of leaning fence. 

Pulling myself up, out, shiver at the cold

I hate school, 

Excited to learn. 

I pick at my acne in the mirror, creating open wounds as a healing process

My chin makes Gemini constellations. 

I’m afraid to break out again, must pick out all I can, prevention. 

I hope my butt got bigger, struggling to put on jeans. 

Weight taken off my chest, put onto my shoulders. 

Mugs sitting in the cabinet, bigger ones for dad. 

Words seldomly spoken as we slump morning grog. 

“Here’s the milk.” 

Passing gallon milk jug, breaking bread. 

Illness and Metaphor Poem

PainPainPain

Hurts to be awake. 

Hurts to breathe too heavy,

Like when you inhale cigar smoke. 

Hurts to swallow.

Can’t kiss lovers. 

Can’t smoke. 

Can’t eat the foods I crave. 

Of course, think of sweet conchas. 

Only chicken soup,

Chicken and rice soup, 

Chicken noodle soup,  

Only hot tea and sweet honey. 

Gargled warm salt water. 

Times spent in the ocean. 

Open mouth laughter with my sisters, 

Atlantic filling my mouth into my sinuses. 

Cringe. 

Groan. 

Go back to bed. 

Call Mom, 

I know what she’ll say. 

Go back to bed. 

I think it only works if she says it. 

Her spell an antibiotic.

Google, “sore throat”

No, no, no; anxiety 

I’ve been through this before. 

I lived. 

Hold tongue with end of toothbrush, 

White spots on the back of my throat. 

Awesome. 

Strep throat. 

Groan. 

Accidentally swallow spit. 

Groan. 

Go back to bed. 

A Quote from Cher, one of my queens: “Mom, I am a rich man”. 

Should I marry? 

Men are dessert, so I don’t need them. 

Are men just gonna fatten me up? 

Men are dessert, only there as a treat. 

Marry rich men. 

Men with mousse soft insides. 

Oooey-gooey insides. 

Close your eyes to savor insides.

Hard shell exterior. 

Thick exterior.

My body is a spoon held by my mind’s strong wrist. 

Careful not to break the plate.

Cracking hard shell exteriors. 

Indulging on the insides. 

Scraping the plate clean. 

Leaving a tip. 

Afraid to make this habit. 

I’ll indulge in the dark. 

On the couch is where I park,

No tip to leave. 

Don’t let these men fatten me up! 

Men marry rich. 

Man’s body is the table under the plate. 

I eat on the couch most nights. 

Afraid of attachment. 

Washing my dishes often. 

Different restaurants.

Discarding cake mix boxes. 

Never letting too many into my pantry. 

Never letting them linger. 

Hasty decorating. 

Rapid devouring. 

Discarding evidence. 

I should marry, 

Only as a treat.