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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Alison C. Rollins - original [sin]

       In ancient Greece, for all her heroes, for Medea    ...    water meant death.
       — Jesmyn Ward, 
Salvage the Bones

 

i poured a bowl of cereal,

threw the empty box in the

trash can. granddaddy pulled

 

the box from the trash,

poured the crumbs into a

bowl, then doused the sand

 

in milk. he looked down at the

bowl, murmuring about how

he had survived the depression. told

 

a story about asking for hot water

at colored diners, how he would

pour ketchup in cups to make soup.

 

this was how

i first learned i am

             wasteful.

 

 

  •  

 

 

i would stand in the bathroom

with my mother. would ask her

why the water in the bowl was

 

red. she would tell me she

had eaten beets. i suppose

i was too young to learn

 

the truth, milkflowers

spill petals red.

 

 

  •  

 

 

in my catholic school of fish,

we took a beautifully wrapped box,

passed it around the class,

 

unwrapping it piece by piece.

afterwards it was cleverly

explained that the box is

 

a girl’s virginity

 

the gift we give our husbands.

 

& who wants a toy that has

already been opened? half

the joy is in untying the string.

 

this is how i was taught

that at my very core, i am

              ungrateful.

 

  •  

 

 

i met someone recently,

in an irish bar, who told me

it’s about knowing what i need.

 

he said later

what you need

is a wife.

 

that night i prayed to god for just a man

and not a man that trails the woe

 

& maybe this is why god serves me

wakes of milkman and tea cake

 

a lip service of sorts

at hand.

 

  •  

 

 

maybe this is how i end up

throwing good things away:

phd

husband

stepdaughter

stepson

a little tiny baby

              unborn

 

locked them all in flooding

house with tearful grin.

 

this is how you

come to know you are

               unclean.

 

  •  

 

 

at times i smell of rain,

blouse damp with the

cloud’s breast milk,

 

this stomach a

sloshing bowl of

watery swish.

 

i curse the phantom belly

moon, can still hear the

sound of  you in still water.

 

                            the wind begins to push

a heavy rain, drops spill from

every crevice of the flower.

 

& then suddenly,

the rain begins to pour.

 

it always all ways

asks for forgiveness.

 

a ghost kneels in me,

              asks to be spared.