By Azalea Aguilar
WAYS TO SAY I LOVE YOU
My mother knew my tongue
even when I held it stumbling
over ways to say I love you
ways mothers know knowing clouds
hang heavy as October closes
swallowing sky like warning
I search for leaves that have turned
the color of love a friend says
She misses fall from where she is
so I search for trees that say we miss you too
these months will always hold
my mother like a song birds only sing
in the cold as they await what comes
inviting it, embracing it winter
always feels like waiting like we did
by her bedside holding her hand
holding our tongues stumbling
over ways to say I love you
THE PRIMAS ALL MARRY WHITE MEN
mi hermana and I assume this a result of machismo
how our men can sometimes be hurting, hollow
for their heavy hearts they sometimes don’t know
how to be gentle, with themselves
much less someone who threatens
to reveal their boyhood fears
replace what little strengths they’ve gathered
rob them of all they pretended not to want
I remember the day my mother suggested
I find a white man to marry
I could tell she wished to take it back
the moment the words slid off her tongue
because she refused to repeat it
what did you say?
what did you just say?
she abruptly changed the subject
maybe she didn’t mean it, maybe it was all her pain
seeking to protect
but I dated a white boy after
who told me he liked the way
my skin looked against his
me, the lightest in my family
a white boy who kept me up nights
crying onto my bare thighs
begging me to prove how faithful I would be
a white boy who pinned me against a wall
breathed his hateful breath all over my skin
pale as it was and called me a whore
EL ALTO
teach our girls
how love can save
from danger approaching
when you and your father
took shelter
bolted as lightning struck
illuminated path
towards that concrete slab
in La Paz
rain screamed sideways
he held you
from winds wrath
covered
your fear with his
taught you threat
can teeter
you tell how sky
seemed to tremble
how quick
downpour came
we see rains
reflection in your eyes
hear its rumble
in your voice
you tell how a slab
forgotten home
middle of mountains
saved you
both
how you have
not seen a storm
like it since
Azalea Aguilar is a Pushcart Prize–nominated Chicana poet from South Texas, where the scent of gulf and memories of childhood linger in her work. Her poetry delves into the complexities of motherhood, echoes of childhood trauma, and the resilience found in spaces shaped by addiction and survival. She writes to honor the past, give voice to the unspoken, and carve tenderness from the raw edges of experience. She was recently named one of LatinoStories.com’s Top 10 Latine Debut Authors. Her debut chapbook, Foxhole, was published by Bottlecap Press, and her work has appeared in numerous journals, including Angel City Review, The Skinny Poetry Journal, The Acentos Review, Somos en Escrito and The Mid-Atlantic Review. She is currently crafting her first full-length manuscript, a collection exploring the intersections of love, loss, and lineage.