Five Things Borrowed
— Monica Rico
after Sandra Cisneros
I wanted to
and did leave Saginaw.
My Spanish is
concealed
because I ask too much from
the smell
of lemons.
I am the woman who
didn’t take
her husband’s name, or
have children.
No one wonders when
I will grow a vegetable garden
or if
I liked New York. I have
not changed my
phone number
in twenty years.
When the daffodils bloom
I bring them inside.
I have yet to see
a person
along the Huron River
lost in bird song
waiting to return
to sky.
I grew up
with the privilege
of a father
who looks
exactly like me
and learned the most
from dishwashing
when my brother’s wife ran off to Jamaica
all he ate
was grits for breakfast. Then
when she came back
my mother-in-law wanted to teach me
the correct way
to wash her son’s shirts.
The last time
I was a ring
was after a party
everyone home and apron
around my neck. The time I heard the geese
traveling with the moon
I believed I was hallucinating and now when they wake me
I know I’m not and imagine I am
an owl falling swiftly
on the sound.
Read more from Issue No. 30 or share on Twitter.