by Marc Huerta Osborn
yesterday you threw cleavers at the squirrel
stealing fruit from your avocado tree. true:
the tree sits in your neighbor’s yard; but a few branches do transgress
the fence into yours — would God not want you to grasp
Him where He gathers? true: tomorrow you throw pots and pans
at the no sabo kids running naked through
the sprinklers. later you’ll water
down their guacamole with expired
milk to feed six bodies, excluding
your own, which you’ll hurl like a blanket to extinguish
your husband’s flammable breath. God knows you
cannot afford another fire. true: yesterday
while teaching the no sabo kids to cook
your youngest spilled a salt shaker in the menudo. true:
the soup was ruined. your husband’s belt stripped her skin like a burnt
tortilla. then you. true:
tomorrow your hunger may spill over into public view.
your middle child might find you chewing paper peeled
from the bedroom wall, an ash-white hue —
yesterday you almost made the news.
awoke in an alabaster room begging an Angel
Gabriel no one else could see to deliver you
from evil: but today
the no sabo kids will take you
home, throw blankets on your shoulders,
rub vapuru on the soles of your feet. true: your eldest
will whisper in your ear: ma, whenever we smoked up the sky
with prayers, the only thing He ever threw back was you, and God —
you flew.
Marc Huerta Osborn is a writer, educator, and college admissions counselor from Alameda, California. He holds a B.A. in English from Stanford University, and is currently pursuing his MFA at UC Irvine. His poetry appears in Rust + Moth, The Acentos Review, Ghost City Review, The Westchester Review, and other places. His biggest creative influences are pelicans, pozole, and ghosts.