Sunday Best

he blows dandelions for his babies in the corner store parking lot
in their Sunday best, following this morning’s sermon
their wishes scatter across the asphalt
with brown paper bags and losing lotto tickets
the chase is on, giggles of giants, tripping over one another as they dash
to catch clusters of dreams daddy makes for them
more daddy, more, they plead

Mother Tongue

Five-month me with my third
chatting with my belly over breakfast
out of the corner of my eye
saw my mother-in-law stare
smiled softly to invite her over
I wish I knew to do that
a tear from her wrinkled cheek
talk to my children when they were inside

Late December in DC

this is how you leave me
late December DC
I chop off all my hair
paint my lips certainly red number 740
let strangers photograph me
posing on barstools
balance stilettos on sticky dive bar floors
this is how you go
with a promise
this time, not to come back
months go by as evidence
no late night calls
slurred voicemails
no Sunday morning invite
to watch the latest foreign film at AFI
no offer to make reservations
restaurants I always feel uncomfortable in
(the kind with multiple forks and expensive wine lists)
this is how you say
I can’t do you anymore
you, get sober
I, last call our spots
this is how I pretend
surround myself people
ten years younger
drink Merlot by the box
smoke Marlboro reds by the carton
sit alone after everyone has gone

You Can Run

you can rent a uhaul
drive 1,615 miles
five month old
buckled in his car seat
leave behind family
heirlooms in daddy’s garage
only home
you ever knew rearview
state signs fly by
welcome to Louisiana,
Alabama, Tennessee
start using the name daddy chose
one you didn’t answer to
when classmates giggled
when you wished your name
was Sarah or Anne
you can straighten brown curls
make you look like mom
oceans humidity far behind
swap Marlboro reds for lights
finally walk where you are going
you can go back to school
work all day, study all night
get accepted to grad school
turn down time off even
after mom gets a stage four diagnosis
you can have more children
buy a townhouse in the suburbs
a minivan too
you can forget names
streets you grew up on
visit less after mom dies
not at all after grandmas gone
you can run
but eventually
it will catch up

Azalea Aguilar is an emerging Chicana poet from South Texas, where the scent of the 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. Her work has appeared in numerous journals, including Angel City Review, The Skinny Poetry Journal, The Acentos Review, and Somos en Escrito. She has been featured at events hosted by the American Poetry Museum in DC and is currently crafting her first manuscript, a collection exploring the intersections of love, loss, and lineage.

Photo by Louis Hansel on Unsplash