Leticia tipples in the winter
and gardens in the spring.
Knobs of baby cauliflower
and twisted carrot fingers
sit on the counter waiting
to be diced into a salad.
Snowdrifts plug Leticia’s dreams.
Her mother’s snakeskin satchel,
wedged behind a bag of compost,
spills Kennedy half-dollars
and jars of baby teeth.
Leticia’s father, and his girlfriend,
sleep tangled, near the rakes.
His beard is black and trim.
He tugs his burlap sack
and methodically caresses
an oily emerald dangling
from his girl’s pink donkey ear.
A blue gum eucalyptus, its bark shedding in long strips,
drips over the parked car in the cemetery.
Front bumper jams against a stone stack
that blocks the road. He could be anyone—
but I recognize the fellow. The stranger at my grave.
He pokes a hole in the moist earth with his shoe,
looks lost, or stood up, or at the wrong address.
Such indecision. I’m freshly laid, resigned,
lips stitched into a smile, nails polished cherry red.
I’m rested, mostly. (Still getting oriented.)
Not waiting, never lonely. The stranger moans.
The lawn man cuts the grass. Each blade gives way,
restoring order at the edge of the city.
Maria Pascualy: "I grew up in Bogotá, Colombia and now live and write in a little white house in Tacoma, Washington. I have been published in Thimble Magazine, Hobo Camp Review, Pulp, Columbia Magazine, Bull & Cross, Panoplyzine, Nine Muses Magazine, Blue Nib, and Mulberry Fork Review."