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 www.thedrugstorenotebook.co.  Herwork has appeared in Really Systems, CutBank, Ghost House Review, Dagda Publishing, Toasted Cheese Literary Journal, among others. It is forthcoming on Aviary Review.

Shell

 

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

 

Welcome

 

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

computer,

I want it to be clean.

 

It will go into a file where

a new book of poems

will gather over

time.

 

Poems that

belong

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

ok.

 

Overdue Love Letter

 

Minus the saliva on paper

The hesitant comma

Barely smeared

 

Impatient still

Signed and dated

Sealed

 

I offer every swerve

Soft wrist and stiff neck

 

Dear,

This is my wet black ink