ruby-red strawberry jam. a single daffodil tucked
in my pocket. the back porch door swings
open and shut. blood trickles
down my arm, and I smell
your stale cigarettes. cattails are blowing in the wind.
the floorboards groan, and I hold
my breath and hope you don’t hear
me.
I smell dark cherries, taste
freshly cut grass. your coarse hands are ripping
through my clothes. I watch
the tangerine sun dip and disappear.
ripe summer tomatoes. bruised lip. I can’t stand
the ticking
of our old wooden clock or your sickly sweet
aftershave. I wonder
how lily pads float.
you make blueberry pancakes and feed
me the burned, buttered edges. crisp
burgundy, ochre, and burnt orange
leaves, the ground is a sheet of embers. roasted chestnuts.
the right side of my face
stings.
lavender sheets, screams, and whiskey tongues. sex.
hot, aching, and searing
in my throat. I’m holding the rotting corpse
of a small sparrow.
cold frosted windows, crescent blood moons
on my arm. bile in the back of my mouth, you kiss
me, more a threat
than a tease. there’s a crumpled Bible verse
in my fist.
I fold your newly laundered shirt, watch sunlight
bathe your face. the floorboards creak
for the last time. I’m hoping you don't wake up, wishing
I didn't care if you did.
Andrea Maxine Recto is a Spanish-Filipino poet living in Manila whose work explores the intricacies of womanhood, grief, love, darkness, and introspection. Her poetry has been featured in One Art: a journal of poetry, Rust & Moth, the Santa Clara Review, the Red Eft Review, and elsewhere, with more forthcoming in the Heimat Review and other places. When she's not writing, you can find her reading love letters in Spanish, living different lives in her dreams, or ordering a whiskey sour. She's on Instagram @itsandreamaxine.
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