Dear Poem
M. Soledad Caballero
You will not come. You refuse. You will not elucidate God or love, The tendril vines and shapes of marriage, illness, the Oscar nominees. You are silent, a cracked, yellow shell. I trust you for something, anything. I want you to be curse and mantra. Instead, you sit heavy. You do not forget. You just do not reveal. An elephant in mud. This is what madness must be. To spend the days stuck in front of white spaces, imagining color. You demand worship and work. You are a wicked queen with red lips and an apple, ready to kill.
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Iron Horse Literary Review
