Twitter Prophecies

are sour wine.
You say don’t stop pap
smears after age 65.
Cervical cancer can
still happen at ninety.
I say paper boats
still sail the river Styx
home. The sky
is a lesson in disaster.
I was born violent
but some days
peri-menopausal
hormones
weigh down
a bird’s wings.
Blood will end
when the moon
is more shadow,
less reflection.
This morning
the sun is red
with adrenaline
and silence waits
behind a door.

It is Two-Thirty in the Afternoon Again

In the parent pickup line
like every other weekday afternoon,
I see the same bright white Cadillac
SUV cutting ahead, driving into the lane
reserved for parents leaving
the parking lot. I see
the driver’s energetic blond hair
aggressively parallel
to the asphalt, propelled
by her air conditioning.
Like every other weekday afternoon
I read the bumper sticker
on the back of her car—
America Strong.
It is red-white-and-blue day
at the elementary school.
My girls are still love sick
for every holiday.
It wasn’t until middle school
that I discovered my hate
for uniforms, when I was introduced
to the hidden intimidation
of pale women named Mary, or Ann,
when they would ask me
where was I from.
But no, where are you really from
they would say and I would then give
a memorized speech of acquiescence,
my catalogue of excuses—
My mother is Mexican. My father is white.
I was born here,
and then I would wait,
for a puzzle of blank to answer me back.
And now like every other weekday afternoon
my children run up to my used black sedan.
Crimson leaves make crowns on their heads.
The sky is an ocean, the color of gratitude.
My daughters point towards the blue
and the blessing of racial ambiguity.