My Father Carved A Hollow In My Mother’s Throat And I Inherited Her Grief

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.