Cynthia Cruz Poems

The child is not dead.
She is sleeping.
...

I did not want my body
Spackled in the world's
Black beads and broke
...

In the middle of the night, father
Brought me a falcon.
...

Then, the police arrive — they don't find me.
I'm disguised as a boy in a champagne wig
And hid inside the gold rattle of a warm Appalachia wind.
...

Death is a beige Mercedes sedan.

I am five and riding
In the back,
...

In the rooms of a rundown palace
You said, Ruined. You said, Princess.
...

I crawl along the wet floor
Of my mother's childhood,
...

Mother's crimson leather bags
Crammed with saint cards
And tiny glass bottles of liquor.
...