the house held heavy your smell of warm punch
Abril Rodriguez Diaz
dark cinnamon skin calloused guava fingers
and rum, soft apples and sugar cane teeth
prunes congealed in raw sugar. i sat breathing
you in dizzying from across the room, thought
about cold tile, swaying, the roof of yellow flowers.
while you were here you kissed me on the cheek
and took me by the hand to get ice cream.
i walked through you, couldn’t bring myself to
lean in and whisper stories of the things i’d learned.
your angels float silly above my bed i slip under the covers
my hands around their necks: choke them back away
into crumpled pencilled napkins and leftovers, time
i want you to look in my head: the warmth
at the base of my skull, to where it extends
you’re on my eyelids, my mirror, imprinted
on my right thumb, smiley baby, you glitter fruit.
sit in the same room, empty, no pinkies. the house
is cotton and blood, veiny thin body walls, weaving
through cotton it sinks around me, shrinks I think
of what I didn’t do. The house wanes wheezes slips
down into crevices of a room somewhere.
Abril Rodriguez Diaz is a high school junior at Orange County School of the Arts. Her work has previously been published in Inkblot Magazine, and her zine is sold by LibroMobile. Apart from writing, Abril enjoys music, pasta, and running downhill. There is nothing she finds more satisfying than filling up a blank sheet of paper with math calculations.