The Burglars
After Natalie Diaz
My Abuelita was ironing, her eyes steaming with light.
I was making no sudden movements. No sudden sound.
Mira para alla, she said. The angels are inside your car.
It was dark inside the Buick, wings could mean anything.
I made no sudden movements. No sudden sound
But her eyes passed like moons over her face.
It was dark inside the moons, and wings could mean anything.
I believed her even as I didn’t.
My eyes passed her face, like moons I moved water
To her mouth, patted her gently, my hands finding the closest weapon.
I believed her even as I didn’t.
The sword was wooden. A bokken.
Her mouth padded gently with water, my hands: the closest weapon
I strode down the flight of steps.
The sword was wooden. A bokken.
I don’t know what I expected was going to happen.
But I strode down the steps, imagined burglars capable of flight.
The car was empty. No trumpets, no knives.
I don’t know what I expected was going to happen.
Without a wound to return to her I made music in my hands.
The car was empty. No trumpets, no knives.
My abuelita was still ironing, her eyes steaming with light.
Without a halo to return to her I made music in my hands.
Mira para alla, she said. The angels are inside you.
Bianca Braswell is a Cuban-American poet currently enrolled in the University of North Carolina at Charlotte where she is studying English and Film studies. She has previously been published in Stark poetry journal and has work forthcoming in Mineral Lit Magazine. She is currently working on her first poetry collection.
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