Karla Fuentes
She is cold while I embrace her
but my heart grows warm.
Her hollow torso, a rusty can
embedded with shards of a broken mirror
that dress her once naked form.
Hands and feet are twigs from fallen trees.
Her hair, an old plastic bag
riddled with holes torn from time
attached to a rejected crumpled love letter
that form her face with a wounded smile
– worn, worthless, weary, and spent.
Her button eyes neglect the sorrow in mine.
I place her on a crib made of decayed leaves,
I leave her, my nameless friend
to be discarded along with the rest of the trash
– disposable, distorted, disillusioned and withered.
Do you suppose she is still there waiting
for the warmth of my embrace?
Rolando Velazquez Garza
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