Spilled Milk Waiting for the Ball to Drop Passing Through

sirylok

SPILLED MILK

Sarah Munoz

Don’t cry over spilled milk.

Instead, watch it spread over the table And trickle down like rain, and then Watch it run its course between The tiles on the kitchen floor Like rivers branching out, Or better yet, like the Big Bang— The way the universe began From a single point, and with a burst Matter spilled outward Spreading galaxies.

Sarah Munoz is a mother, a poet, and a public school teacher from Virginia. Within the past year, Sarah’s poetry has been published in Blood Moon Poetry‘s Issue 2: [in] Bloom, and in their printed anthology, The Faces of Womanhood. She has a forthcoming publication in Train River Poetry’s Covid-19 anthology.

Helena Lansky

WAITING FOR THE BALL TO DROP

Sarah Munoz

It’s August and still I’m waiting for the ball to drop Like it does during the last 10 seconds of December— Releasing the past, welcoming the rest of life.

When I was 6 years old, my father left my mother Right in front of me. His brown Samsonite suitcase was Already packed, the metal hinges clicked shut. He was just waiting for the final argument, The cue from my mother: Get Out!

It’s been over 30 years since then and I’ve grown Tired of the visits to see my father. I’m exhausted From enduring his mistress-turned-wife, The one he left my mother for, And listening to hate-spun tales And his alterations of the past. I’ve had to stomach that for too long.

And even after 3 strokes, he’s still here Plaguing me like this never-ending pandemic, And I still visit Because I feel it’s my duty.

And all I can do is wait for the ball to drop For the angel to give him his cue. For closure. For the Rest.

deepgreen

PASSING THROUGH

Sarah Munoz

Did you know that as we speak, people are dying and being born?

My daughter always Spills existential thoughts To the glass above The passenger side window seal On our drives home.

Why am I alive? Why am I here?

She knows these are things I can’t answer, So she addresses the thin glass separating her From whatever’s out there.

Sometimes I think I’m just dreaming, she says, Leaving fingerprints on the sky.

I wish I had more truths to offer my daughter On these drives home.

But I’m just a portal. I’m the place she passes through.

And one day I’ll be a memory. I’ll be a dream.