Poetry, Michelle Leal
Blackberry jam
on pan amasado,
Navel oranges,
and conversation
in the form of bad
poetry: run-ons,
improper syntax,
and made-up words.
I sit next
to my father,
who never lets me
win at chess
because he knows
I am capable –
no man has ever
had the courage
to love me like this.
Gilded rays seep
through the window
blinds and bathe
an imitation of Monet’s
Garden at Sainte-Adresse
on the wall above us
when my mother enters
from the front yard,
holding a bundle
of shamrock thorns
and crimson petals,
says, Estas rosas
nacen para ti.*
*These roses
are born for you.
Michelle Leal (she/her) is a nineteen-year-old Chilean American writer. She loves to paint her nails wine red and isn’t allergic to anything but dislikes olives (unless they’re chopped so very finely that they’re tasteless in the mix).
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