The Junk I Carry

The last time I saw him,
I hid behind
the large plaid ruffles
of Altagracia’s skirt.

So tiny was I,
he couldn’t spot me.
                    ”Wanna see your daughter?”
                   ”I don’t need to. Just give me my things.”

His words are the ice in my drinks,
the rocks I crash on,
“his things,” the junk I carry
like a bag-lady,
his smell, “Old Spice”
with an undertow that never lets me swim,
his rage, “Mama” --or was it I?--
I'll never know.

Winding roads,
winding years,
winding the last drops of unshed tears
to erase the delusions
of his face
floating in my dreams,
just because
the last time I saw him,
I lost him.