I drink wine that has turned.
I listen to water that drips from the upstairs neighbor’s balcony.
The hum from the Heineken sign we’ve only used once or twice pulses as the breeze rains its cool breath on my face.
The night March air calms the tear stains on my cheeks.
My father told me he was getting married 4 days ago, and I only now know what this means.
I picture my mother’s grave, a hallowed place I haven’t visited in 6 years.
Street lamps glow against the Spanish tiles, the ones glistening in the humid air.
They look like the roof of my father’s house, a place this other woman now claims as her own.
The courtyard is silent, cats long gone, hunting their mice and birds as I unravel while dragging from Louie’s pen.
The sky is a dusty navy and I think of the March night 8 years ago, just before we put my mother in the ground, when all I wanted was someone to hold me, someone to cry into.
Now Louie leaves me as I sit, this Florida magic churning me into the crone.
I drink and I smoke and yet I still feel too much.
My abuela has a recipe for this, hidden somewhere in her arthritic knuckles.
If she were here, she would boil a root and sing an old song I’ve never heard, then tell me to drink, but that I shouldn’t use honey this time.
What is magic but memory but song.
MICHELLE LIZET FLORES is a native Floridian and current resident. A graduate of FSU and NYU creative writing programs, she currently works as a teacher where she fosters the next generation of American writers. She has previously been published in magazines and journals such as The Miami Rail, FreezeRay Poetry, and Travel Latina. Her first chapbook, Cuentos from the Swamp, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. Find out more at michellelizetflores.com.
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