Who is she?
A railroad track toward a single heaven?
Dripping like sweet syrup in the morning?
The protector of my skin, my suburbia starched self.
The lipstick case of my afternoon dreams.
Are you a prayer that floats into short speeches at PTA meetings?
I don’t like you very well.
You don’t suit virgins in the back of pick-ups
Or the transparency of Jell-O, red, grape, orange.
Go pant with desperate men
Listening to women on the end of 900 numbers
Go hide with hearts behind the counters
At pretend butcher shops and ancient Dairy Queens.
Why did you move in with me, why did you follow?
Why my house, my life, my story? You large as a whale
Too big for my ocean, go float in the Pacific, go drain
Another world, another life, my ovaries are tired.
All right, all right! I can’t find the mustard.
I will take you along for a picnic lunch,
Piedmont Park to be exact, back by the rose gardens
Where for many, so many years the weeds are rarely trimmed.
By: Elena Arosemena