Eye, Unconditional
I fell into the food, still smelling like the sex
we left upstairs.
Behind disclosing eyes I try to remember
“napkin” in Spanish.
Chengua (milky soup) filling my cheeks,
your grandmother
flinging her hand at me, “Comerse.” (Eat up.)
She prepared meals with tenacity—a clock
striking the quarters—
“H-wahhhn! Venga!” (Juan, come.) I jolted,
you were unmoved.
We devoured arepas y chocolate con queso.
(One time
in the condo, I sipped a dead, hot stink bug
out of the cup.
I never told anyone. A practice in desperation
is drinking
every cup served thereafter. Thirsty unconditionally,
my heart willed itself
to forget. The rest of me not so much.)
We ate lengua (tongue) tacos at Los Bebes for lunch.
I stuffed pan
down my throat, hoping you’d see. Frantically,
I read green card laws,
signed yellow loan papers so you could buy chainsaws,
pretended I was fine
to watch you and one hundred women eye
each other.
Your mother turning gray-haired decided over té con miel
she and I
were the only ones in the world who loved you unconditionally.
A club for the blind.
Not that any of this matters. It’s just how nothing
stopped:
the clock striking quarters, the despair,
the piles of arepas.
Daria Uporsky is a freelance writer for ethics-driven organizations. She is published in Eunoia Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Rising Phoenix Review, and elsewhere. Her poetry currently explores the landscapes of introversion, love, trauma, and healing. She is based in North Carolina.