Babies in Waiting

01.24.01
11.23.03

“The letter wasn’t responded to, the writer waits alone.”
There are five different water bottles here, one thermos and a CircleK big gulp. Imagine my face in wire spectacles. My lover’s left clavicle tastes like jalapeño strawberry jam. We shall live in a flat of crumpled newspaper, walls striped in the fine grey print of the New York Times. Newspaper vendors have to be hot-dog fat, hatted, a little greasy, smoking a chewy cigar. At Robinsons May I want to get Levis, cosmetics, sneakers, hot pink handbags and a bra.
Rooting in my bag the Xanax kicks in—I feel the need to switch to paler ink.
When I have known him a year, I think, then I will tell him about naming my daughter Esperanza, and the promise/agreement I made with Virgin Mary at San Javier the weekend he had to work.