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You wouldn’t believe it if you saw me,

Calling upon Saint Letticia of Bloody Heels.

Me with the straight and luscious black hair,

Almond-shaped onyx eyes,

Toasted skin you call exotic.

 

 

But I come from the place of rolling, roaring tractors.

The scent of manure as tires thud eagerly on asphalt,

Followed by a flock of gray Lexus SUVs.

Mothers donning black heels, red on the sole, Chanel No. 5, pearls dangling from their necks.

Mother warns they’re still giving birth.

 

 

In the kitchen with my mother,

My father’s hand clutches the taut neck,

 

Of a lifeless market chicken above our sink.

“Thank you, Brother.”

Thwack!

So we have soup with scallions, drops of salty vinegar,

Simmering in Brother’s Broth.

 

 

Now I am the one with bloody heels, pregnant pearls from my mother hanging from my neck.

We live in our home on a cliff made of glass.

Our three rooms,

One for him,

One for me,

One for him or her.

For the Darius or Sofia,

The Phoebe or Tyler who never came.

A basket of puzzles and paperbacks in the corner collecting dust.

As we sit on our leather sofa, looking out beyond the cliff,

Into the water.

**

Bio:  Kelly Ann Gonzales is a NYC based novelist & poet. Her works have appeared in the Penultimate Peanut & the Write Launch. She has an insatiable passion for travel, hospitality, and all things written and to be read. Visit KellyAnnGonzales.com for more details and follow her on Instagram @KellyRiveraGonzales.

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