Pesadillas—heavy nightmares,
the weight of rude questions
from visitors who ask
why my mother
left me.
This happens almost every evening
at las tertulias, Bernarda’s lively gatherings
of shopkeepers and other gossiping adults.
Curious grown-ups should know
that furious orphans don’t have any answers
to questions about wandering parents.
So I lie down
wounded
by words
and wake up
with nosebleeds
headaches
fears
but words are also my sturdy refuge
by day, in merciful sunlight, beneath
the gourd tree,
beside the pomegranate.
So I read, in the morning,
after each nightmare—
soothing poems,
glowing adventure stories,
and radiant tales
of not-quite-rhymed
poetic wishes.