Ana Maria Caballero worked in finance, journalism, wine importation, and even for the Colombian government before recently becoming a mom.  Now she focuses her attention on writing poetry and book thoughts, which can be read at  Herwork has appeared in Really Systems, CutBank, Ghost House Review, Dagda Publishing, Toasted Cheese Literary Journal, among others. It is forthcoming on Aviary Review.



Not a slightly quivering shell covering solace love anymore

Nor the sturdy come home sounding doors awake aside

Ground fallen stymied lump of grab

There here visible unto us


Growth of silence flowerlike confident bloom

Room light thickened butter weight gasps of air

Lungs confront chest mirror throat

Styrofoam plea squeaks through

Bargain snaps iceberg like off our frozen skulls

Floats by dense breath




It’s not like I don’t

ask nice. Not like

I have more than


one shelf. Every night

I make room, but it

is for one single


plate. And every

afternoon it is I

who sets it down.


Who offers you

or you or you

the chance to give


thanks. To be the

one who makes

another fold his


hands. In my home,

it is you who hosts,

and I am compelled


to be charmed.  Call it

grace. Call it world

talk. Call it an open


heart, straight teeth

that will always

call you back.


Bathroom Talk


Watching you pee in front of me while we talk about not being late


It’s true we shouldn’t be late to things


I try to remember when we began peeing and talking


In front of each other


I wish I could remember


I would tell you


I wish I had to pee


So that I could test you and see if you look


See if you question


Any less


What I am about to say


Which is basically


Everyone already expects us to be late


So maybe we altogether just stopped being late


Late Night Poem


It is no secret to me that Leonard Cohen

drank too much wine late at night

listening to someone like

Leonard Cohen on too much wine

late at night.

I am no better than myself.


The way I break down is sudden and graceful,

with altruism, helping hand,

my head held up

so beautifully high.

I am no better than myself.


Fragility to me,

said softly,

becomes fertility.


Several tragedies,

is the title of this silent late night poem.


New Computer


Because this is the first

poem I write on my new


I want it to be clean.


It will go into a file where

a new book of poems

will gather over



Poems that


to another book

will have another file.


There will also be

a file for poems

that are nothing


I see now that this

will be one of

them, and it is



Overdue Love Letter


Minus the saliva on paper

The hesitant comma

Barely smeared


Impatient still

Signed and dated



I offer every swerve

Soft wrist and stiff neck



This is my wet black ink