Three poems by AMARIS DIAZ
Abuela, Mi Muerta
I find you here,
In the gardening section at Lowe’s.
Not the house where my mother learned her silence
Or the backyard with water hose for sprinkler.
Not the crippled languages of my youth
Or the eight-house-long walk to stained glass windows.
You, clearance rose bush.
No longer a myth.
Not ghost or bone,
Only wilt. No drown or surrender
But ungrowing.
Today, my own unbecoming.
I cannot make promises on blood anymore, Abuela.
I’ve stopped asking the trees permission to climb them.
I’ve forgotten to water the plants
To call each flower by name.
Today, your own death in another body.
I’ve nowhere to bury you.
93 The Paris-American
I find you here,
In the gardening section at Lowe’s.
Not the house where my mother learned her silence
Or the backyard with water hose for sprinkler.
Not the crippled languages of my youth
Or the eight-house-long walk to stained glass windows.
You, clearance rose bush.
No longer a myth.
Not ghost or bone,
Only wilt. No drown or surrender
But ungrowing.
Today, my own unbecoming.
I cannot make promises on blood anymore, Abuela.
I’ve stopped asking the trees permission to climb them.
I’ve forgotten to water the plants
To call each flower by name.
Today, your own death in another body.
I’ve nowhere to bury you.
93 The Paris-American
Contents of My Backpack
1 sketchbook (because I cannot forget my father’s hands)
2 drawing pencils (see above)
1 flyer for a poetry show I made an excuse about (I can’t always church)
1 tube of red lipstick (dare me)
1 pair of earrings (woman armor must be stylish)
1 sac-n-pac lighter (I can love you this much)
4 broken cigarettes (I am trying to stay)
1 eraser (I stopped saying your name)
94 The Paris-American
1 sketchbook (because I cannot forget my father’s hands)
2 drawing pencils (see above)
1 flyer for a poetry show I made an excuse about (I can’t always church)
1 tube of red lipstick (dare me)
1 pair of earrings (woman armor must be stylish)
1 sac-n-pac lighter (I can love you this much)
4 broken cigarettes (I am trying to stay)
1 eraser (I stopped saying your name)
94 The Paris-American
My anger: his mouth.
His mouth: tombstone.
My tombstone: a grave I am trying to un-name.
My name: used noose.
Used noose: unsigned suicide note.
Suicide note: drunk prayer.
Drunk prayer is what happens when people stop listening to each other.
Listening: a rope.
That we might pull each other out from the grave.
The grave: too late.
The grave: don’t cry, mama.
We: grumpy children. We: tired parents.
We: stuck. We: teething.
Teething: the only way we learn to bite.
His mouth: my anger: teething.
95 The Paris-American
His mouth: tombstone.
My tombstone: a grave I am trying to un-name.
My name: used noose.
Used noose: unsigned suicide note.
Suicide note: drunk prayer.
Drunk prayer is what happens when people stop listening to each other.
Listening: a rope.
That we might pull each other out from the grave.
The grave: too late.
The grave: don’t cry, mama.
We: grumpy children. We: tired parents.
We: stuck. We: teething.
Teething: the only way we learn to bite.
His mouth: my anger: teething.
95 The Paris-American
Amaris Diaz was born and raised in San Antonio, Texas. She currently resides in San Marcos, Texas, where she is finishing up a B.A. in English from Texas State University this summer. She spends her free time reading, writing, and worrying that doing so is a waste of time. She hopes that graduate school will take her just far enough.