She looks to curry favour while living in chaos.
“I married too young, now the silence
feels violent. I hear tiny insects rubbing wings,
and ants marching in the grass.”
She buys roses in a variety
of colours, but they appear
stagnant; petals cover tabletops, long,
lost, weathered stems peer out.
From her stoop, she invites me for
sopa de calabaza … sprigs of epazote
languish in circling cream.
Sitting in her concealed frame, clutching
friendless sorrow, we both smile
“The mirror has two reflections,” she says.
“One’s alive with perfect trust,
the other splits us in two.”
In open sincerity, we continue eating.
*sopa de calbaza – pumpkin blossom soup (SOH-pah de kah-lah-BAH-sah
epazote – a Mexican herb (eh-pah-SOH-teh)