Listening through the static of the radio,
a man sells divorces sin dificultades.
Mothers push children in shopping carts
across the pavement as the store empties,
each worn-out button on the dashboard
illuminated blue. We keep hush-hush
about certain things: how cellulite impregnates
the legs of women walking past the car;
that I don’t like the saladitos Nana will buy
to lick out of halved oranges.
I don’t tell Mother I know why Nana sleeps
in the living room—there’s no point
in unmaking a bed for one.
Her diary reads Ya no quiero vivir.
Mother doesn’t need to remind me.
It’s unspoken, what we have—
need in abundance.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 3.
Eloisa Amezcua is an Arizona native. She recently finished her MFA at Emerson College and works in Cambridge, MA. She’s received scholarships from the NY State Summer Writers Institute, the Bread Loaf Translator’s Conference and the Vermont College of Fine Arts Post-Graduate Workshop.See all items about Eloisa Amezcua
