i.
at our local, honeyed coffee shop, a tired lady calls my order mi amor
instead of empty woman, and that’s all it takes for me to cleave. my husband
pauses mid-sip of his cortadito and clutches my waist; he observes
my red skin, cheeks, the pomegranate seeds that seep from my eyes,
and tells me it’s okay to cry for what i will never have. he kisses my forehead
and i clasp his words like prayer.
ii.
it’s a long walk home past our church and palm leaf statues and the farmers market
where i buy plums. i slacken, and a little girl stares, asks her mom how a person
could be so undone. i want to tell her this is sadness. everyone is devastated
once in their life, sometimes daily, and she’s already begun preparing too late.
when we reach our apartment, i slide the key across the inside of my wrist
the same way my mother massaged ginger oil into strangers’ backs: as if looking for forgiveness.
iii.
i’m set down on the couch. my husband heads to the kitchen—he knows
i need to be alone—and an air of seared frog legs wafts. my favorite.
i wonder: how long will he be happy with me, chapped lips and unkempt edges.
nevermind the spiders curled at each corner of my heart. can he handle
this grief? i think one day, he’ll gather my hips into a pan and fry them
like today’s lunch. he’ll say welcome. here is some butter. here is some salt.
go ahead and rest. call it home.
Carina Solis is a sixteen-year-old writer in Georgia. The author of “Daughtersong” (Bottlecap Press, 2023), she has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers, The National Poetry Quarterly, The Georgia High School Association, The New York Times, and others. Her work appears in Gone Lawn, Heavy Feather Review, Rust and Moth, and elsewhere. She will attend the University of Pennsylvania in the fall.
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